Storm Chasing
by Jack of All Suits
Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life.
1. The Storm Gathers

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Well, I said I was going to do it, but I didn't expect it to happen so fast. Here's the first chapter, and I currently have the next two completed. Watson doesn't make his appearance until chapter four, but that's not to say nothing interesting will happen before then. With any luck, chapters will be posted weekly(or, perhaps two a week if my muse starts choking me). Enjoy! And as always, remember to review!**

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**_Chapter 1: The Storm Gathers_**

"Lestrade, do you fence?"

It was an innocent question about a sport that had died out almost seventy-five years before his reanimation, yet it began a series of events that would rattle the small world they had built for themselves. At the time Lestrade shrugged and confessed that she didn't know the first thing about swordplay, which seemed to delight Holmes more than if she'd admitted to being a three-time world champion.

His insistence that she learn set in motion a bit of a strange cycle. Every two weeks or so she would drag herself home from work, curl up on the couch to catch one of those dubious shows that were aimed at the female populace, and right at the best part the projector would be flicked off and a foil(how Holmes even found them was beyond her) would land on her stomach. Turned out ol' _Sherlock_ thought he was too good for knocking on doors, especially if you were one of the rare few he valued as a friend.

Or maybe she was just _special_.

Whatever it was, she had become Holmes' fencing partner. He taught her the proper stances, and the right terms. Lestrade, always the apt pupil, picked up the sport quick enough. Eventually their little spars spread beyond the New Scotland Yard gymnasium; Baker Street became open ground for attacks, as were the halls of NSY if they happened to have rolled up paper available.

It was in Baker Street(wasn't it always Baker Street?) that the incident occurred. About two months before his first "rebirthday", they were having a mock war in the sitting room. It had started as a lesson for Wiggins and Deidre, who had shown some interest in fencing (sword fighting was still an appealing concept), but eventually it had turned into an all-or-nothing match sans rules. The usual insults were cried, and to Watson's dismay several packs of neatly stacked case notes were thrown as distractions.

Eventually, using an explosive array of thrusts and feints, to both their surprise Holmes's foil flew across the room, nearly decapitating Tennyson in the process. There was a long period of silence, until Deidre started cheering—always the feminist—and Holmes sat up from where he'd fallen over the sofa, accepting the defeat as gracefully as he could. "I say, Watson. You're getting better all the time!" He said vaguely, eyes glazed over in nostalgia.

"Watson? Are you goin' funny, Mister 'Olmes? Watson's over 'ere!" Deidre pointed out.

Holmes lapsed into a period of unstable silence, punctuated by Lestrade's panting and the noises coming from Tennyson's chair. He glanced around, with his skin turning a sickly shade of gray. "Of course. Excuse me." He brushed through the mess, leaving in his wake the confused group.

Lestrade glanced at Watson, but his attention seemed trained on Holmes's bedroom door, which had been closed and locked with a heavy thud. "Eh… maybe you guys should head home…" She said tentatively, tossing aside her foil and looking at the Irregulars. For kids they were a decent bunch, but the fact remained that they didn't know how to deal with Holmes on a good day, let alone when he was in what Watson called a "Black mood".

The three teens headed towards the door. Wiggins hesitated just outside and turned to look at Lestrade and Watson. Though they tried to keep their expressions light, it obviously didn't work well, for their young friends looked more troubled than before. "Is… Well, I mean… He _is_ okay, right? Mister Holmes, I mean."

"When is Holmes ever _not _all right?" Lestrade snapped, rolling her eyes at the typical worried babbling. Holmes was probably the most level-headed person _she _had ever met. Sometimes it was absolutely infuriating, seeing that he didn't seem able to connect with the rest of the world on an emotional level. If a guy could wake up two hundred years in the future saying "At your service", something in their wiring wasn't working, right? It wasn't like Lestrade had ever actually _asked _him how he liked the new century, but he was so… so zedding closed up, and she was still kind of intimidated by him(not that she was spreading _that _around), with the whole 're-animated world famous detective' thing.

Could it be… he wasn't as much of a machine as everyone thought?

"…let you know if something is wrong. Have a good afternoon, then!"

Lestrade came back to herself as Watson finally shut the door gently. They met gazes for a long moment, and she grinned tentatively. "There's not… really something wrong, right?" She asked hopefully. The compudroid was the best one to ask; he lived with Holmes, whereas Lestrade sometimes went weeks without seeing them at all, unless Holmes called her at some insane hour of the night asking about the origin of techno music.

Watson looked downcast for a few seconds, apparently drawing his thoughts into order. "He's been acting strangely. Temperamental, morose… he won't tell me a thing, though!" He looked at Lestrade worriedly. "He spends his time curled up in his chair reading those old journals."

Journals?

Oh… _those _journals…

"Should we… er… talk to him?"

Watson sighed, a strange noise for a robot to make. "I've tried. Perhaps you will have better success." A look flicked across his face too quickly for Lestrade to grasp, but it was close enough to sadness to compel her to pat Watson on the metal shoulder. "I do apologize, Inspector. I just feel like I'm living with a…a…"

"Robot?" She offered in a poor attempt at humor. His lips twitched upward for an instant.

"Sometimes." He confessed.

She glanced up the seventeen steps that led to their separate rooms. "I'll try to find out…"

The compudroid shuffled his feet slightly. "I'm afraid I wasn't absolutely candid, Inspector. I believe I already know what's plaguing Holmes."

"Really?"

"It seems easy to deduce. Depression, irritability, clinging to his old possessions, a desire to be alone…" Watson shrugged. "Holmes is homesick."

Beth looked up the stairs hesitantly. The most homesick she'd ever felt was her first week at university. But then her parents had come to visit and she felt better, knowing her family was still there. She couldn't connect with Holmes… everyone he knew was dead. They had been for two centuries. Most of them didn't even have graves to visit anymore. She remembered hearing about the cemetery in which Mycroft Holmes and the rest of the family were interred. It was under a restaurant now.

What was she supposed to say? "Aw, Holmes. It's only everyone you know and love!"?

Pfft. Right.

At least Watson(the original model) wasn't lost in some suburban jungle. His body was resting next to his wife's in a massive cemetery in North England. In fact the place had, in the last few years, become popular for the well preserved bodies left behind following an early twentieth-century flood. It seemed the area was bizarrely well-endowed for protecting human bodies from the routine processes of decomposition.

The spark of an idea had hit her midway through the thought, but she shook it out of her head for the time being, instead smiling as encouragingly as she could. "I'll try to talk to him." She assured Watson, taking the steps two at a time.

She knocked on the door of his room, only then realizing that she had never actually seen where he slept. Whenever Holmes needed something from there, he grabbed it himself. "Er… Holmes?" She asked, feeling a bit like an idiot, standing there and talking to the antique wood.

There was an audible sigh on the other side. "I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but would you kindly be off?"

"Watson and I are just worried. No need to be rude." Lestrade could hear him pacing back and forth in there.

"_Don't call him Watson!_" She jumped at his unexpectedly violent tone.

Taking a breath, she bit her lip and knocked again, louder this time. "I'm not playing shrink through a wood door, Holmes. Open up or it's going down." Alright, that probably wasn't the best thing to say to an emotionally compromised detective who knew twelve different ways to kick her sorry self to the curb. Still, the fact that she could hear footsteps approaching the door was promising.

The utterly annoyed face that glowered out at her when it opened? Not so much.

She put on a good show of nonchalance, pushing past him into the room, ignoring the loud huff of breath released from his nose. _He's like a bull or something. Probably gonna kick up his feet as a warning too._ Lestrade thought, and she smiled a bit as she looked around.

This was, without a doubt, the most disorganized place she'd ever seen. It seemed all the things Watson didn't think would fit in the sitting room had been relocated in here. She could see three communicators Grayson thought NSY had _lost_ in _pieces_ on the floor, and there were dozens of text books flung around. It smelled powerfully of the strong tobacco Holmes managed to get shipped to him, despite the strict regulations behind its usage (if he wasn't so zedding useful, she'd have had to arrest him just for that). Lestrade stooped and plucked a digital watch off the floor. "You packrat," She accused lightly. "I thought you broke this thing months ago—the day after you got it!"

Holmes brushed past her despondently, grabbing it as he went. "I was trying to see how it worked, but the blasted device was nothing but wretched wires and plastic." He growled. It was starting to feel like she was trapped between a dog that hadn't eaten in a week and a steak—or an agitated Holmes and his quiet-time. "Now that you have at last invaded the only area I can truly call my own, may I politely remind you to close the door when you leave?" The detective huffed into his arms, leaning against the headboard of his bed with a peevish expression.

"Y'know, Holmes, hiding things isn't healthy." Lestrade pointed out. She stood where she was, suddenly feeling slightly awkward about the way things were unfolding. "I had no idea you were so…" What was a nice word for _miserable_? "…_Unhappy_ here. You probably should have said something." She shuffled a bit, though there didn't see to be much unoccupied space.

Holmes sighed jadedly and ran a hand over his eyes. She knew _that _was his 'I'm surrounded by Neanderthals' signal. "What would come of my lamenting every evening about the things I miss about my own time in history?" He suddenly shot onto his feet, clenching a fist. "Nothing would be achieved; even if I said I find it impossible to sleep in this infernal _noise_," He gestured around them, "or how absolutely _nerve wracking _I find these new vehicles, or how completely _insulting_ it is to have a _machine _attempt to replace…" He sighed and sank onto the bed again, looking dejectedly at the floor.

Lestrade pursed her lips and sat softly on the edge of the bed. She extended a hand tentatively and laid it gently on his shoulder. "You… miss him, don't you?" She murmured. "A lot more than you admitted."

Holmes looked up with an air of almost heartbreaking misery. For a terrifying moment Lestrade thought he might start to cry, but he seemed to miraculously pull himself together at the last second, nodding instead. "More than you can ever imagine." He choked, standing without warning and crossing the room. He paused at the door and turned to look at her, eyes wild with rare emotion. "Don't tell him…" He gestured vaguely to the staircase. "He tries so very hard. I wouldn't want to upset him." Holmes turned away again. "Come along, Lestrade, I believe the chief Inspector had a murder he wanted us to look into?"

Beth blinked in utter confusion. The guy couldn't be human. _Normal_ people didn't jump from being half in tears to hunting down murderers. Of course, that was assuming Sherlock Holmes had a _normal_ bone anywhere on his body. "I'll be just a minute. I have to call something in…" She waved him on and soon enough his voice resonated from the sitting room, where Watson was apparently setting out a tray of ginger snaps. Lestrade swiftly punched the right digits into her communicator.

A few tense moments passed before her lips creased into a devious smile. "Hi, Doc? I was wondering if I could call in another favor…"

A depressed detective was a liability, and a liability could get them all killed. Besides, she needed a Christmas gift for him.


	2. The Clouds Roll

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: None. _Possible _H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: I know I said updates would be weekly, but being that I already have up to chapter seven fully written and proofread, I felt it was a bit silly to hold off on putting them up. Two a week, I think, is more reasonable, and I'll probably slow down once I stop churning chapters out like it's going out of style. Also, from here on in the story will be done in specific first-person POV's. Unless there's a particular reason not to later on, in which case who knows what point of view I'll be writing in.

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**Chapter 2: The Clouds Roll **

**Lestrade**

Sir Evan Hargreaves is a reasonable person. Probably one of the only ones left nowadays. Even though he told me Holmes was the last person he was ever going to willingly revive, when I managed to actually tell him the situation, he said he might be willing to make an exception. It all depended on how much of Doctor John H. Watson was left. Inside his coffin. In a cemetery. That I had no permission to exhume.

That was definitely the biggest hitch.

Well, actually getting the body wouldn't be hard; just a bit of digging (literally) that someone else would do under my instructions. The _problem_ was getting the permission to actually go body-snatching. The slip granting me access to the coffin was the only thing in the way, and getting Grayson to come around to the idea was something that would take all my subtlety and cleverness to achieve.

"_'Ave you lost your bleedin' mind?!_"

So much for that.

"Come on, Chief!" Initiate doe-eyes approach! Grayson was always a sap for the doe-eyes! "I promise it's for a good cause, and I already checked the files; there are no relatives alive to protest!" I wandered a bit closer to the desk, but when he snarled I thought better of it and backed up. "Holmes is—"

"_Supposed_ to be dead!" Looked like the doe-eyes had met their match. Grayson was practically screaming. "But I s'pose _you _sorted _that _one out, didn't you? 'E wouldn't _be _in such a lousy mood if you hadn't gone meddlin' in the affairs o' the dead!" He slammed one of his fists onto the table and I've got to admit, I really hoped it hurt.

I held up my hands, just in case he whipped an ionizer on me (it's happened before). "Try to understand Chief," Let's give wheedling a shot. "Holmes is absolutely depressed. He's barely been outside in a month, and just _yesterday _he almost got us killed! He didn't even notice we were being followed until they started opening fire." If I made Holmes sound like a liability to the Yard, I knew Grayson would start to turn into putty.

His face lost a bit of the furious red, which was always a good sign. "Another patrol car for th' trash 'eap." He grumbled. "An' why didn't _you _notice you were bein' followed, hmm?" Oh great. Out of the frying pan and into the lecture. "Isn't that the first thing you get drilled on in the academy nowadays? '_Don't let—_"

"_'—your partner look for you'_ I know, I know! But he _always _notices things before anyone else! He notices before Watson, and he's a _compudroid_!" I took a deep breath, trying not to lose my patience. Grayson was already being stubborn; if I started shouting I wouldn't get anywhere. "The point is, Chief, if Holmes keeps going the way he is, he's going to turn into a huge problem for the Yard. He's already got people snapping pictures of him wherever he goes… if I—er… _we _don't do this, do you want it to spread around that _you _hired a detective that's getting his partners killed because he's too nostalgic to do his job?"

There! Grayson's face dropped, and I had to hold in a laugh of triumph. I _knew_ I could get him to come around! "You think it'd get that bad, eh?" He asked at last.

I nodded, hardly trusting myself not to sound giddy.

He pulled out a notepad and flicked through its interface. "Do _not_ tell anyone I did this Lestrade, or I'll 'ave your badge. Let the bloody world think this was another one o' your zedded schemes." He finished filling out the document and transferred it to an official NSY form. The screen flickered a few times before showing off my new permit to obtain the body of John H. Watson. Hah!

"You got it, Chief! I won't tell a soul!" I headed for the door.

"Does your dead detective know about this 'arebrained idea o' your's?" Grayson piped up.

I shook my head and stepped out the door. "It's a surprise."

"God help ya then." He turned back to whatever he'd been doing. "_Never _again, Lestrade. Two bloody dead men are enough for anyone—even you. They're both gonna be _your _responsibility. You better not be bringin' back another one like the maniac you 'ave now."

The door slid shut and I couldn't help squealing in delight. If I knew anything about _this _guy, he was just the sort of peaceful Ying needed for Holmes's… well… not so peaceful Yang.

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_John Watson_

_Feb 23 1851 –_

_March 14 1926_

For all the excitement building up to this moment, it seemed a bit anticlimactic. The stone was half worn with age, and the carvings of ivy and wheat had faded over the many years. I ran a hand over the thing, grateful that it was only late October, and the ground was hardly what you would call frozen. It had been easy enough digging down, and now I just had to wait for the few workers I'd rounded up to pull the casket(whatever was left of it) out. The transporter attached to the back of my patrol car was big enough to fit it snugly.

"Would'ja be wantin' t'look at it 'fore ya leave, Inspector?" I looked up from the tombstone, a bit surprised that they had gotten it out so fast. It didn't really look like much. It was just a wooden box, well preserved, but appearing morbidly derelict surrounded by dirt and grime. It was supported by a hovercart—the same kind that stores used for heavy lifting.

I might be in NSY, but that doesn't mean I leap at the chance to look at bodies that have been buried for two centuries. "Er… no, thanks. Just stow him and I'll take it from here." I followed them back to the cruiser. "Thanks a lot. New Scotland Yard will forward your pay in the next few days." Not that I'd told _Grayson _that.

It came as a surprise that, the moment I hopped into my seat the communicator flicked on, showing Watson (Well now it felt weird to call him that). "Called much?" I asked sarcastically, starting to delete the seventeen missed alerts the cruiser had stored while I was gone.

"I do apologize, Inspector. Holmes was just—" He winced when a book flew across the sitting room behind him, "Wondering if you had seen his—" There was a loud crash and suddenly Watson vanished from the frame. I looked at the empty space worriedly, though the fact that Holmes was cursing offscreen meant he couldn't have broken anything. "—Pipe." Watson finished, poking his head back into view.

"His _pipe_?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow. "What in the world would I want with his pipe? Tell him to look under the book case." When all else failed, things had a mysterious habit of reappearing under there. "If it's not there, I don't know."

"_Aha! It was under the book case! How the devil does everything end up down there?"_ I smirked and went to flick off the screen when Holmes appeared, looking ridiculous as his head was at an angle that suggested he was standing on the sofa for a reason only he knew. "What have you been digging up?"

What? How the zed did he know I was digging anything up? "Nothing you'd find interesting. Just a case Grayson put me on."

"North England, I presume?"

"How… never mind. Yeah, North_west_ if you want to be specific."

"What on Earth would Grayson have you digging up in Northwest England?"

"Like I said Holmes," I had to get him off the line before he started figuring things out. "Nothing you'd find interesting. Anyway, I have a call coming in from The Chief himself." I flicked the communicator off and started the cruiser, pulling away from the cemetery. I glanced back to make sure the Original Watson was holding on, then sped up, angling towards Hargreaves' house.

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Waiting for Sir Evan's diagnosis was more frustrating than anything else. I've never been the best person to ask to sit down and wait for answers. I'm more efficient at going out and _getting_ what I need. Frankly, telling me to sit in a waiting room for a few hours while someone else does all the work just makes me itch.

Not that I could be much use to Hargreaves. I flunked high school biogenetics (and pretty much every science course they had) miserably. I don't know the first difference between a liver cell and a kidney cell, let alone the best way to help a world renowned biologist reconstruct a guy that's been dead for two hundred years. So I was shoved into his living room with a pot of tea and a tray of biscuits.

During the first hour I was able to stand still, besides fidgeting my feet and scratching my head. I drank more tea than I had in the last two weeks—which is a lot if you're around Sherlock Holmes much—and let my eyes wander. After an hour and a half of waiting I gravitated to the bookcase on the far side of the room, lit up by the healthy sunshine that never seemed to break the fog of New London. I picked out the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and sat on the floor.

Sir Evan came in after three and a half hours, and I probably looked a bit less collected than I'd have liked, sprawled out on the floor with almost every book from the first shelf of his collection spread around me. Apparently Holmes had infected me with his messy habit of throwing anything that wasn't interesting behind me without a second thought. When he came into the room, I looked up from the book I was reading and hastily started tossing novels back into their places. "Sorry, sorry…"

He seemed to find it funny, and it was easier to start laughing along, grabbing the last book and holding it up. "Hound of the Baskervilles." I explained with a wide smile. "It's the only story Holmes can't tell, since he only showed up halfway through!" I paced to the couch and sank onto it, pulling up my feet while Hargreaves cleared his throat.

"This… is a much more complicated case than Mister Holmes, Inspector." He began, and I felt the blood drain out of my face. I must have looked as disheartened as I felt, because he laughed and held up his hands. "Don't worry, my dear, it can certainly be done. I would take you down to have a peek, but I'm afraid our Doctor has seen better days than this." He cleared his throat again and I wished I had a cough drop for him or something. Throat clearing ticks me off. "This isn't quite like the situation we had with Mister Holmes, as I was saying. Holmes was encased in honey, which was absolutely fantastic for preserving his cells as they should be. The doctor is in a stage of decomposition that, though not as advanced as it could have been, still makes finding suitable cells a tricky process."

"So…" I admit, I didn't really understand what he meant. "Is he going to end up without legs or something? Because he doesn't have enough cells?" I must have said something funny, because Hargreaves laughed again, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

"No, no… but this is an excellent chance to combine cell rejuvenation and cloning. Basically all I am _trying _to say, my dear, is that the Doctor's recovery will take much longer than the week or so it took to revive Mister Holmes." He took a long sip of tea. "You see, my dear, I can restore a certain amount of Doctor Watson using cell rejuvenation, but eventually I'll have no choice but to replicate existing cells to complete his body. It shouldn't have any unfortunate side effects as long as we take our time."

Oh. Well, why couldn't these science types just say things like that first? I was reminded that scientists always loved confusing regular people with their circular explanations, so I sipped a new cup of tea as well. "So how long do you think it'll take?" It was October fourteenth already. There were still two months before Christmas, when I had hoped to be able to surprise Holmes.

"Oh," Hargreaves shrugged, as if we were talking about the chance of rain in the afternoon. "Possibly two months? More likely three."

So probably not in time for Christmas. _Zed_! Now what was I going to get him? I smiled anyway and held out a hand. "Perfect! Thanks a lot, Doc. Are you sure I can't see him now?" I couldn't help but be curious. Seeing Holmes regenerate had been like watching time going backwards. Every few hours he was looking younger and younger. From debilitating age, to senior citizen, to middle aged, to mid-thirties, and then the detective the world knew now. Mid-twenties… and handsome (_not that I noticed_).

"No, my dear. Come back in a month or so and he should look presentable. Right now it's an awful mess; nothing but dried skin and bone." Hargreaves stood up and waved me out of the room, and then the house. "I'll call you immediately if something comes up."

"Yessir. But if you hear Holmes in the background, I might not be able to reply. I'm _trying _to keep this a secret."

Sir Evan raised an eyebrow at me. "I see. Well, watch them carefully when they _are _introduced. I shan't want my two greatest successes dying of heart attacks." I nodded and headed for the cruiser. "Ah, and Inspector?" I turned back to look at him, though I was more interested in getting back home. "You don't think the Doctor will be as difficult to bring in for check ups as Mister Holmes, do you? I can't afford to have two grown men running about my house making a mess of things every few months…"

I grinned as comfortingly as I could. "As far as I know, Watson was the logical one." I hopped into the cruiser and shut the door, waving once more at Hargreaves before lifting off. Taking advantage of the freedom that came with being alone, I flicked on a music file that would have made Holmes writhe in his seat. With the grave digging and waiting and tea over, today wasn't such a bad day after all.


	3. The Wind Howls

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

******Pairing: None. _Possible _H/L later on.(Sorry Emi-the-anonymous-reviewer)**  


**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Kso chapters three and four were originally just one, but by the time I'd finished writing it I realized "Oh dear, it's twice as big as all the others!" and therefore I decided to cut it in half. After these two, we have one Lestrade chapter, and THEN Watson comes into play! So look out for Chapter Six!**

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**_Chapter 3: The Wind Howls_**

**Holmes**

Fighting is something that has become second nature to me.

I certainly don't intend to say that I am at all a violent or uncivilized brute. In fact, I abhor the general lack of grace the populace puts into their fighting. Neither shall I ever be accused of unnecessary violence against others, but I'm afraid in my line of work, the 'bad guys', as Lestrade so wittily puts it, don't like to give up quietly. More often than not I am led on excruciatingly routine chases through the streets, ducking gunfire (or ionizers, in this strange new age) and striking where I can.

When I was a young man—in mind and in body—I found these chases and subsequent brawls exciting. They were an excellent escape from the drudgery of reality, especially with my Boswell at my back. As I progressed in life, they became infinitely more frequent, and considerably less entertaining. It seems in the criminal mind, swinging around a club and cursing loudly is an adequate way to incapacitate a man trained in fencing, boxing, and various martial arts.

When I first awoke in a new century I was, dare I say, _excited _at the prospect of learning the new criminal methods. I had rather hoped they might have picked up some new tricks after two hundred years. Perhaps even learned to present a reasonable challenge in a case of old-fashioned fisticuffs. In a body younger than the one I had when first I began my business of detective work, it seemed not a lot to ask.

Oh, how wrong I was.

With the rampant spread of video games and other such lethargic activities, finding a physically fit criminal to whom a clever mode of attack extends beyond charging in recklessly swinging a metal pipe is akin to finding a needle in a haystack. I often wonder if the clumsy individual responsible for this needle even remembered to drop it. To make matters all the more _tedious_ the use of nonlethal ionizers has long replaced pistols. The need to dodge bullets has become greatly reduced, and one's companion needs only press a few buttons to restore your consciousness, should you be put at the mercy of one of the fanciful weapons.

It fascinates me that Inspector Lestrade wonders why I am at my wit's end with boredom and nostalgia. It seems the things I used to enjoy are no longer enjoyable (walking in New London is similar to walking in a poison mist. One can only get so far before suffocating) while those activities that seem appealing in this _new_ century are either off limits, or simply too difficult for my Victorian mind, however expansive, to comprehend. My skill at driving these deucedly complicated machines has improved with the aid of the Compudroid, yet I have come to realize that learning to control the blasted things in New London is a health risk. Already I believe I am responsible for seventeen drivers losing their vehicles with my admittedly reckless speeding. As for this _internet _business… I have thus far managed to successfully master the art of typing.

Indeed, it seems this century is not as amazing as I would have hoped. For all the elementary problems of _my _time, such as slow-moving cars, and a lack of television, it appears to me that they were nothing when compared to the woes of the modern world. What difficulty is a horse-drawn carriage when these 'speed demons', as Lestrade puts it, are frequently stealing lives when they lose control of their vehicles? What fault is there in a lack of televised entertainment, when any Victorian man could outstrip their modern counterpart ten times without losing their breath?

It appears the world has traded a lesser evil for a greater one.

I have been dropped into a place that was not made for me, and that creating a comfortable nook for myself within the metal matrix may be impossible. Already I have been forced to obtain tobacco illegally (imagine, tobacco consumption being so strictly monitored!), and my humble abode is so old fashioned, it apparently… no, I won't even deign to repeat what Lestrade said on the matter. Needless to say, it's _extremely _outdated. My usefulness is not as great as it once was, despite being a quick study of modern crime-solving. What I once had to deduce by the power of my own brain, there are now machines to do it instead. I often wonder if there is such a grand purpose for my being here besides satisfying some strange desire of Lestrade's to meet one of her childhood heroes.

All facts considered, I almost revere the presence of Moriarty, without whom I would surely go mad from frustration. Though he is also a creation of the modern world, his mind remains an intriguing thing. The only worthy adversary in this entire equation of crime; the only man I can possibly find any mental exercise with. I imagine he would feel similarly. We are, as we once were, equal balances on the scales of justice, if you will pardon me for waxing poetic. Is it not, however, a thoroughly disconcerting notion that the only solution to my mental plague is a criminal mastermind?

"Holmes?"

I was shaken from such dark reflections by the voice of the Compudroid. I have wondered on several occasions if I would be too cold… too rude, even for this crass new generation, to ask if we might find it a different name. Surely, it doesn't resemble _my _Watson in the least, nor are their voices even remotely similar. Yet, for the sake of the thing, for it _does_ appear to have a heart somewhere, I maintained the illusion. "Yes, Watson?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears, cracked from going eight hours without food, drink or talk.

The machine stepped forward and proffered a glass of water, which I readily took and sipped upon. "Thank you. I'd forgotten…" Forgotten what? That even the great Sherlock Holmes occasionally requires sustenance? That simply dehydrating myself in my own sitting room was no way to behave?

"Not at all." The elastomask reflected an uncertain expression, one that I had seen often as of late. "Holmes, I _am _sorry I can't be of more assistance." Eyes flicked downwards. Clear sign of dejection. Cast to the left. Obviously uncertain as to how he should proceed.

I sat up in my armchair, propping my chin on my fist with a studied expression of sympathy that I simply did not feel. "No, I must apologize." Why? Well, I wasn't certain, but this uneasy atmosphere was making my stomach churn. "I have been an absolute terror to live with, I'm sure." True, yes. Worthy of an apology? Highly unlikely.

The Compudroid seemed satisfied, though. "Not at all, but—"

Oh thank Heavens, the door!

"You mustn't linger in doorways, Lestrade! Do come in!" Perhaps not the first individual I would choose to break in on this awkward situation, but she did have a history of bringing me interesting problems. In fact, given her excited footsteps, I wouldn't be surprised if that was again the case. I glanced at our new arrival; a satisfactory look to gather any imminent details. "You have been as far as Kensington, I see. A murder?" Oh, I did so hope it was a murder. At least _that _hadn't changed with the times!

I could not resist smirking at the perturbed expression that forever overtook her face at my astute deductions. "I really wish you wouldn't do that. It's creepy." Not for the first time I wished against her obscure new world slang. I assumed by 'creepy' she meant 'disconcerting' and therefore I nodded pleasantly. "Anyway, yeah. Murder in Kensington. Looks like the guy went the old fashioned route, even for _you_."

That attracted my attention, and I was willing to turn in my seat to award her a full gaze. "Indeed? A knife, then?"

"Nope. A pistol, by the look of it." Ah, I should have known. She smelled faintly of gunpowder.

"In a closed room." I redeemed myself.

"Yeah, the pantry. It's one of those old places." She made a face, one I had learned to connect with a state of confusion. "What I don't get is how the guy could even _get _a gun. There's a huge ban on them almost all around the world; I mean, I've only ever held _one_."

I rolled my eyes at her usual assumption that a strict ban meant no one could skirt around it. "With the correct connections, it wouldn't be difficult. I get tobacco, after all, despite the ban." She glared then, and I must give credit where it is due, for she has perfected it to an art form. "However, I imagine my own underworld associates will make short work of finding out where our friend has been getting his firearms. Now, kindly give me the details of the crime scene, and we can be on our way."

A single shot to the head. Victim was a thirty-four year old male in government employ. Ryan Farrell. Aside from the presence of the gunshot wound, there was nothing to make it seem out of the ordinary for a murder. Jewels, bank passwords, and antiques had been lifted, while government documents remained. Clearly, the murderer was in the business for immediate results and nothing deeper.

I was jarred from my thoughts by one of Lestrade's trademark turns that seemed to make the contents of my stomach do fantastic flips. The woman could drive no better than I, and there had been many a time I had felt certain that I was about to become reacquainted with death for being in the passenger's seat. Luckily, Kensington was scarcely a stone's toss away, and the ride was blessedly short.

The body had remained in the pantry, which was drawing quite a bit of attention from the other officers that had been assigned to crowd control (I regret to say, I seem to attract groups of people when on a case) as well as the few human workers that ran the enormous estate. Though a frustrating hindrance, it wasn't surprising; murders with guns had become extremely rare in the last century, which made this something of a spectacle.

I approached the corpse before Lestrade and the Compudroid, who hung back to talk to another inspector while I took care of the less pleasant business. I pulled back the sheet that had been placed respectfully over the victim and could not help but suck in a breath at the sight. The wound was anything but small; the impact had pressed the forehead in, and I could not bring myself to check the back of the head. Nevertheless, from my studies of firearms throughout the ages, I could place the bullet, as well as a rough estimation of the gun.

"Lorring says they found the bullet, but they haven't actually figured out what kind it was yet." Ah, Lestrade. "Nasty, huh?"

Nasty… as in disgusting, I assumed. "Quite." I bounced onto the balls of my feet and stood up, brushing my fingers off on my Inverness. Why the blazes they had purchased me _that _coat of all things was beyond me. I had rarely worn the deucedly tricky capes in my time. One minute they're infernally hot, and the next a breeze manages to slip between the folds and freeze you! Heaven forbid I start on the cursed Deerstalker, which had become a symbol I could do without, even in my time. Alas, back to business. "The bullet was .40 calibers, shot at close range, I'm certain Lorring will concur when he runs a test. The pistol in question was considerably stronger than anything we had in my time, though obviously the principle remains very much unchanged." Perhaps in (very) bad taste I pointed a finger at Lestrade, simulating the usage of an antique gun.

"So… there's a murderer running around New London with a loaded _gun_." Goodness, she made it sound absolutely scandalous. My Boswell would surely have been proud. He would also have stood beside me readying his own army revolver, ready to face the enemy come hell or high water.

"Holmes?"

Blast it all, it felt as though I was losing all grip on reality. "My apologies, Lestrade. Yes, that seems to be the situation." I turned abruptly, and I saw her out of the corner of my eye back away from the tail end of my coat as it whipped about to follow me. "I'll be back after I relay the information to my contacts."

It was imperative for the meanwhile at least, that I kept my mind in the present, and in the case. I could not afford to let them see how tangled my thoughts had become.


	4. The Wind Howls pt 2

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

******Pairing: None. _Possible _H/L later on.(Sorry Emi-the-anonymous-reviewer)**  


**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Holmes is having a bad day, poor guy. By the way, I took the liberty of very slightly changing the effects of an ionizer on a person to something I find a bit more realistic(And -cough- something that better fits the story). In the show, ionizers typically either knock you out or bind you with three rings of light so that you can't move freely. The only difference for this story is, the latter effect of ionizers freezes you _completely_. Meaning when you're zapped, you're completely conscious but unable to even speak. Think Petrificus Totalus(however it's spelled)!**

**Disclaimer: Can't believe I forgot THIS. SH22 belongs to someone else who is not me. I only dream about owning entire TV shows.**

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**_Chapter 3: The Wind Howls pt. 2_**

**Holmes**

It took two hours to find the man who had murdered Mr. Farrell. It was a new personal modern-day record, as a matter of fact, when it came to locating a person. If they were nothing else, my New London criminal connections were prompt and efficient. To aid matters, Timothy Dempsey was an unpopular and mostly unknown man in the criminal world, therefore no one had hard feelings in giving his name to us. Just a small amount of digging showed that Dempsey was in the habit of frequenting the dockside area, and drove a small black vehicle with a noticeable list on the left hand side. I had earlier determined that he was between six feet and six feet two inches. My associates later contacted us with a physical description: Powerful build, prosthetic metal right arm, dark hair, beard.

As we rushed (Lestrade rushed. I clung to my seat and prayed to survive the trip) I stole a glance at my companions. As seemed typical, the Compudroid appeared rather nervous, while the inspector could scarcely stay seated for excitement. "Lestrade?" Oh good Heavens she was looking at me, not the air before us. "Watch where we're going, Inspector. I would rather not be involved in yet another one of your driving debacles." When I had ascertained she was not going to successfully kill us all, I continued. "I would appreciate it if you kept your distance in this case, Lestrade."

"_What_?" I returned to my natural position of clinging to my seat as we swerved wildly around a strategically placed pole. "Like _zed_ I'm gonna sit outside drinking _tea _while you chase down the lunatic with a _gun_!" She spoke as a child might from my own time, under the assumption that holding a loaded gun made a man superhuman. Though _I _knew the difference, Timothy Dempsey would still have a massive advantage over Lestrade, for, however overconfident she had a tendency of being, I knew the thought of old-age firearms had rattled her.

Unfortunately my suggestion hadn't gone quite according to plan. Perhaps I mistook Lestrade for Watson on occasion. The latter would have peacefully (if rather dejectedly) asked for my reasoning and conceded to my points. The former was more prone to 'flying off the handle' and cursing at me in a way that still alarmed me, coming from a young woman. "Lestrade," I said in my most soothing tone. "I only suggest it because you have no experience in firearms. Guns are not like ionizers. You cannot take chances and you…" _Are the single most reckless person I have ever met in this life or the one before? _"Have a history of acting impulsively."

The Compudroid sat up suddenly. "I believe telling her no is only goading her to act even more rashly, Holmes."

"_She_ is still here, y'know!" Lestrade hissed. "Look, Holmes. Can the superhero act. If you're gonna run the risk of getting shot, so am I." 'Can', as in 'be quiet', I believe. We landed more roughly than usual and I hastily made to get out of the vehicle. "So just _don't _okay?" I perceived her voice shook slightly, though even I found it difficult to distinguish if it was from uneasiness or anger.

We proceeded quietly then, besides tersely exchanging false apologies. We passed the suspected hovercraft in silence, though our steps became decidedly more cautious. My eyes roved the area, relieved to see plenty of cover. Dempsey had, according to my well-placed sources, recently been released from prison following a positive psychiatric analysis and several rounds of crypnosis (in the new century, prison was reserved for individuals with histories of violence, those who committed the most sadistic crimes, and felons whose minds could overpower the crypnosis process.). I couldn't imagine why the police continued to rely on that blasted machine anyway, when clearly it had more than a few colossal flaws. According to my calculations, almost half the criminals we had caught had at one point or another been subjected to crypnosis.

Despite myself, I was lost again to a tide of memories. How simple it had been, when Watson and I had only to catch the criminal and put them in a cell. There was no risk that a day later they would be back on the streets of London, continuing to commit crime. After our success, it would be back to Baker Street where we would amuse each other for several hours discussing the case, as well as many from the past. Mrs. Hudson would rise to the occasion, regardless of the hour, with tea and biscuits. The poor woman had been most long-suffering. I rather lament I never did repay her for her kindness over the years.

"_Holmes, are you crazy?! Get down!_"

Only the good will of providence spared me a similar fate to Mr. Farrell, for the passing of a bullet dangerously close to my head stirred me from my blind reverie. The shot echoed through the streets, and I confess it induced me to flinch from alarm. I followed the example set by Lestrade and the Compudroid, ducking behind a metal bulletin board. Dempsey had clearly known we would come looking for him, and had no doubt hidden in one of the many alleyways waiting for the opportune moment to strike. I was a fool for not realizing the situation we had entered; blind by all accounts, while the criminal could see us quite easily from any of his hideouts.

A bullet struck the barrier between him and me, burrowing into the thin metal. I could not help but wince as the impact jarred my shoulder roughly forward, and the dull ache of it promised to become a nuisance in the next several days. With a series of leaps and rolls, I successfully reached Lestrade and the Compudroid where they had ducked into an alley. "I—"

"_Don't_ even say it." I looked at Lestrade with what I believe were exceptionally wide eyes. She glowered at me, unmistakably irate, though she continuously glanced over my shoulder for a sign of the criminal. "I don't want to hear any of your little apologies right now." In spite of my admirable self control, I could feel my face heating up slightly. In outrage or shame, I wasn't certain.

"I wasn't going to apologize."

"Well that's nice. As long as you don't admit you made a mistake…"

The Compudroid glanced between us uncomfortably, but it seemed we both had forgotten about the felon awaiting us only twenty feet away. It is with deep shame that I confess Inspector Beth Lestrade has an extremely devastating effect on any self-discipline I possess. Against my will, I seem to be dragged into ridiculously immature arguments with her on a daily basis. Frankly, she proves my point. Women _are _the most erratic and capricious creatures on Earth. To make sense out of them is to discover the meaning of life itself.

"I will admit my mistakes when I make them." I all but snarled back, folding my arms across my chest and ignoring the Compudroid's mounting concern. "Which is certainly more than you can say, Inspector."

"_Me_?" She hissed, Dempsey now clearly forgotten. "You're the one that didn't even notice a maniac pointing a _gun _at you!"

"Indeed. I suppose _you _have _never_ been lost in thought. If I may remind you of the last _two_ cruisers you took the liberty of decimating?"

"That's different and you know it, Holmes! Stop trying to switch this around. It's not _working_."

"If you simply stopped relying on _me _to solve all your problems, perhaps you would be more inclined to accept that I happen to be human!"

"Me? Relying on _you_? Newsflash, _Sherlock_, I haven't been able to rely on you to tie your own shoelaces for _weeks_!"

"Goodness knows it's about time you learned to tie your own in that—"

"Dempsey is approaching. If you _children_ would kindly grow up for several minutes, I would be _much_ obliged." Good heavens, the Compudroid was versed in sarcasm! I pulled my walking stick from within the folds of my Inverness and extended it, feeling a rare rush of gratitude to the new century. If they had done only one thing right, it was developing such compact weapons.

Though it had been several (hundred) years since I had fought anyone holding a pistol, the methods for such an encounter were as fresh in my mind as the morning news. I held the cane eagerly as his footsteps approached. I could hear Lestrade unclipping her ionizer, while the Compudroid readied himself for the coming excitement.

It happened faster than I remembered from the past. The moment the pistol appeared around the corner of the alley, I made swift work of batting his hand away. A shot rang out, temporarily robbing me of my hearing, and a bullet disappeared into the wall. A quick observation showed the man, shorter than I by only an inch or two indeed had a prosthetic, metal arm. It was no surprise then, that my solid strike had done little to shake his grip.

I swung again, this time striking him soundly in the torso. Dempsey crossed one arm over what I imagined were now exceptionally bruised ribs, and attempted to aim the weapon again. By now I could see that the fellow had little experience with firearms; had he been using his natural arm, he would most likely have broken his wrist. I reached forward and grabbed his mechanical limb, straining to raise it above my (and my companions') head. Another two shots rang out.

"Holmes, I can't shoot him with you in the way!" Lestrade pointed out the obvious, as per usual. I struggled and grappled with Dempsey to give her a better chance at hitting him, but the man was built like an ox. It was all I could do at the moment to hold him. If she had been Watson, I would have felt safe in maneuvering my legs to give her a difficult, but hardly impossible shot at his legs. Alas, I knew Lestrade to be an admirable marksman (or should I say woman), but she was not on such a level as that. In addition, I could hear a quaking in her tone that indicated her aim was lacking already from anxiety.

I turned my head just slightly. "Just _try_." I caught his other fist before it made an unpleasant work of my face, and the struggle intensified. "If you stun me, you can easily get him as I'm falling." Even if Dempsey could hear what I recommended, he couldn't possibly run fast enough to escape, though I did so loathe being hit by ionizers. The glaringly bright energy the devices produced made my skin tingle painfully, and it made me feel like I was suffering from lockjaw.

Had the Inspector not already been infuriated with me, I imagine she might have protested strongly. As it were, I had very little warning before I felt the familiar, but still disconcerting sensation of no longer being able to move. As I fell, I could see Dempsey lowering the pistol again, as if intending to shoot.

But he was out of bullets.

_Was_ he out of bullets?

My eyes widened in terror at my gross miscalculation. I could do little more than wriggle about on the ground as he leveled the weapon on my companions and pulled the trigger, just as Lestrade fired again. Dempsey hit the ground beside me, and I could see out of the corner of my eye the Inspector raise a hand hastily to her face, while I heard the heavy sound of metal hitting the Earth.

"_Watson!_" I could hear Lestrade's distress effortlessly, and I attempted to twist around to observe what had happened.

What the blazes was going on?!

Minutes passed before I saw Lestrade again, this time hauling the Compudroid as well as she could. Her right cheek had an open wound upon it, which inspired me to make a point to kick Dempsey when I got the chance. The Compudroid was disturbingly silent, and I shuddered at the sight of it. The elastomask had been removed, and the faceplate of it had been broken in by the bullet.

I tried to speak, but the infernal result of the stunner made that impossible. It seemed if Lestrade could read the apology in my eyes, she wasn't willing to accept it. "I'm taking him to the techies. Hopefully he's not completely fried." She explained tersely as a light rain began to fall. "I'm going to talk to Grayson tonight and get you removed as a consultant. I'm not working with someone that's gonna get me killed because he can't stay in the zedding present." I would have preferred to be yelled at. The icy tone made my stomach clench in shame, and I sighed, hanging my head. "A constable'll be here to get you in half an hour or so. Hopefully you won't do anything outrageously _stupid_ in that time."

I stared after them in shock as Lestrade heaved the Compudroid into the cruiser and then got in herself after picking up the pistol gingerly. Though my battered shoulder was aching fiercely now, and I knew I wouldn't be able to move it properly for days, it didn't compare to the abnormal throbbing I could feel from my chest. The rain began to fall heavily, and all I could hear was Dempsey's labored breathing beside me. He had hit his head when he fell, and was blissfully unconscious. He hadn't heard my degrading lecture at the hands of Lestrade, nor could he see the utter disgrace I felt as I leaned as comfortably as I could on the wall and waited for help.


	5. The Rain Pours

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: If you're confused about Holmes' appearance changing (brown hair instead of blond and gray eyes instead of blue), I'll point you towards my oneshot Companionship, Discussion and Hairbows. To summarize for those who haven't read it: Being that it's in the experimental stage, the cell rejuvenation process takes a longer time to restore pigmentation to its original state than the rest of the body. So even though Holmes came into the 22nd century with blond hair and blue eyes, after about a year or so it's going back to the original black hair and gray eyes. Just a friendly reminder in case anyone was confused. Also, Watson was originally going to make his reappearance at the end of this chapter, but I think you'll agree it was better left off here. Make way for the good doctor in chapter six!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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**_Chapter Five: The Rain Pours_ **

**Lestrade**

Last time I checked, Christmas was the time when you got together with friends and had a good time. You were supposed to go out to galas and dance, or sit around a fireplace and talk. There were supposed to be big family feasts and lots of drinking. Everyone was supposed to be _happy_!

I remember last Christmas was happy. I spent time with my family, and I _finally _met my brother's daughter after two years. We went outside the family house in the country and had an old-fashioned bonfire. We exchanged gifts early, because everyone knew I'd get called away before the night was through. But I didn't. For the first time, I didn't get a single call to break up whatever brawl always seemed to happen during the happiest time of the year.

Probably because of the fiasco that'd ruined the night _before_ Christmas. Running around the city with a snarky, evil (according to Holmes) toy that kept making fun of everything it saw wasn't exactly how I would have chosen to spend the night. Not that I minded much. In fact, Holmes had been in such a weird mood it almost made up for getting yet another cruiser totally destroyed. I should probably start sending Moriarty the bills. He definitely doesn't _have _to blow up every new car I get. But still, even a year later, some of the one-liners that doll came up with were still free game.

Comparing Holmes to the appendix just doesn't get old.

All in all, though, last Christmas was a success. I spent time with all the people I wanted to, and got a few gifts in the process. It wasn't really surprising that I didn't get anything for Holmes and he didn't get anything for me. He might have gone all soft on us for one night of the year, but it didn't make up for the other three hundred and sixty-four.

On the other hand, this year was a complete and utter bust. Not only did _every _member of my family fly the coop, but Holmes refused to talk to me at all, after the '_fiasco'_. When I left him tied up with Dempsey (not my crowning moment of intelligence), I didn't expect the constable that picked them up to assume Holmes was a _criminal_. He was dragged, kicking and screaming according to witness reports, back to New Scotland Yard and forced to undergo several hours of questioning. Grayson, as always, jumped on every chance he got to catch Holmes doing something he wasn't supposed to, and by the time wind of it got back to me (_after _I convinced Grayson to remove him as a consultant) Holmes was getting lined up to be crypnotized.

Even though I arrived in time to get him off the hook, I've never heard a _human _growl as realistically as he did afterwards. Of course, calling him Fido probably didn't help my cause.

Anyway, Watson was still on the bad side of toasted even after a month, and I got triple-time at work to cover the cases Holmes usually took. I've got a new respect for the guy—depressed or not, he has the New Scotland Yard record for the highest number of successful cases. Only two have gone to him without getting broken wide open. And they've both got Moriarty written all over them.

So, my Christmas this year involved working, sleeping, working again, eating a freezer-burned hamburger on Christmas Eve, and then working all the way through 'til Boxing Day. I tried to visit Holmes, but the lights were off and the door was locked. If it wasn't for the fact that I knew he had nowhere to go, I would have thought he wasn't home at all.

Now it was the twenty-eighth, and I had just explained the entire situation to Barbara Landry, one of my old friends from the college days. She was working in New York City as a cop, but some family issue had her in England for a few weeks. We'd gone out for coffee to catch up, and somehow the entire lousy state of affairs just sort of spilled out.

"You did the only reasonable thing, Beth." She patted my hand in what I guess she thought was a comforting way. Really, it just made me squirmy. "If I were in your shoes I'd do the same thing. The guy can be as much of an ass about it as he wants."

Ass. Yeah, that described Sherlock Holmes to a tee. "But I don't know how to fix it, Babs." I sighed. "I've got a surprise lined up for him, but I can't intro—er… show it to him unless he lets me in his stupid apartment." The Original Watson played across my mind; he was supposed to be ready for a test drive within the next week or two, according to Hargreaves. The only things left to fix up were a few odds and ends in his body. I hadn't had time to see the progress yet, but Sir Evan said it was '_most impressive_', whatever that meant.

Barb drummed her manicured nails against the table we were sitting at inside one of New London's smallest, homiest cafés. For a minute I felt like curling up my hands to hide _my _nails. They were practically nibbled down to the quick. Nothing like Babs'. Then again, I wasn't much like her to begin with. She was one of those classic American-style cops. She had the blond hair (_Fake_. I thought moodily), the straight white teeth, and the body anyone else would kill for.

She was a nice person and all… but you couldn't help but feel subpar sitting across from her in your civvies. My worn out jeans and T-shirt didn't stand a chance against her sleek leggings and designer sweatshirt, and I couldn't look at my puffy winter jacket without cringing at the comparison to her form-fitted one.

"A _surprise_?" She laughed, and the noise grated on my ears. "Come off it, Beth. Why would you get a guy like that anything?" I tensed at her tone, which seemed a bit _too _nasty in my mind.

Holmes might have been a complete and utter idiot, and a depressed one at that, but he was still worth defending. "He's my partner, and I know this is going to turn things around." I snapped. "Besides, he's the reason the New London crime rates are so low. Grayson'd have my head if I let him keep going like this." _Not to mention he's Sherlock zedding Holmes and his fanclub would hunt me down with knives if I didn't try._ I added mentally, snorting under my breath.

Barb's face fell, and I realized I'd ended up practically berating her for trying to cheer me up. "Jeez, sorry Beth, I didn't realize he was _special_." She said testily, and I restrained my temper with a deep breath. If we could handle the magazines sniffing around making up weird stories, _I_ could handle one friend jumping to conclusions.

"It's not _like_ that." I argued, folding my arms. "Look, I can't help working with the guy, and if he starts messing up on the job, it's not just him that's going down."

"_Sure._"

"I'm serious, Babs!"

"That's not what other people say." She insisted with a singsong tone.

"_They're a bunch of no good, lying—_"

Barb laughed and patted my hand again (could she stop doing that?) "Don't worry; I'll take your word for it." Judging by the look on her face, she wasn't taking my word for _anything_. "So how _is l'amour_ going for—"

She was cut off (thank God) when a shadow fell over the table. "Would you mind terribly if I cut in?" The familiar voice made me look up; though I was almost sure it couldn't be the detective I thought I heard. For a split second I thought I was right, but then I raised both eyebrows when it turned out I was wrong after all.

The first thing that jumped out at me was the fact that he looked like he was running on nothing but caffeine and willpower. His face come across as gaunter than I'd ever seen it, and the skin under his eyes was practically black. Second thing that made me stare was the change in his irises and hair. A while ago he'd given Watson and me a pretty long explanation about why I kept seeing his eye color change, but I hadn't actually taken it seriously until now.

In the last month his hair had darkened to a tone of brown that was only a few shades from black. The tips still looked light, but it was no surprise I hadn't even noticed him enter the café. He looked _different. _Even his eyes had paled further; they were a far cry from the dark blue _I _was used to. Over time they had not only turned gray (That'd happened a while ago) but now they were devastatingly bright to boot.

Babs seemed unimpressed at the interruption, and she took a sip from her coffee. "And _who _are you?" I flinched a bit at the cold tone, but didn't jump to his defense this time. If he wanted to talk, he could do it for himself.

"Sherlock Holmes, madam. It's my pleasure to make your acquaintance." Of _course _he had to do the completely Victorian bow that made every female within ten feet blush to the roots of their hair. Show off.

Still, I had to smother a snicker in my cup when Barb gasped ridiculously and clapped a hand over her mouth. She stuttered out a greeting and stood up hastily, giving me a look that clearly blamed _me _for her snapping at the world's greatest detective. I smiled and held up a hand, waving at her as she walked briskly out of the place. "You can't do things the nice way, can you?" I said lightly, grinning at the flustered form of my friend on the sidewalk.

"Excuse me?" Holmes sat down in the spot Babs had vacated, taking a liberal taste of his drink. "The _nice _way?"

"Y'know… introducing yourself like a _normal_ person? All the bowing and complimenting… look, she's _still _red!"

He glanced out the window and shrugged with a nonchalance that he'd practically patented. "I didn't follow you here to humiliate your rude friend, though it _was _an added bonus."

Hold on a minute! He _followed_ me here? What kind of lunatic was he to actually _follow _me! "Anyone else, Holmes, and I'd have you arrested for stalking." I actually surprised myself by being able to make my tone passably teasing. "What do you want, anyway? You've been happy to ignore me for the last month. The techies said you didn't even _check_ on Watson." Speaking of our robotic friend, he was still out of commission. Turned out New Scotland Yard didn't carry many replacements for the parts the bullet had broken. Luckily, it hadn't affected his personality or history drives at all. Good ol' Watson was still in there, somewhere.

"I did check on him." Holmes corrected sharply. "Tennyson hacked into the computer system and I've been watching their progress." He sighed and leaned back in the chair. The sun (rare as it was in New London) caught on his cheek and I raised my eyebrows questioningly at a fair-sized bruise that stood out on his jawbone. "Ah, from a recent case—I _am_ still a _private _consulting detective. To quote your modern sayings, 'you should see the other man'." He drummed his long fingers against the table, seemingly as perturbed by the situation as I was. "Lestrade, I—"

"Holmes, I—"

We both stopped, and I grinned sheepishly, "Wanted to apologize?" I offered, holding up my mug in an offer for a truce. Honestly, staying mad wasn't going anywhere. "I'm sorry I left you in a dark alleyway in the pouring rain, completely defenseless with a murdering psychopath and almost got you crypnotized because of it." I gushed out, feeling even worse now that I said it aloud. The fact that he hadn't ended up dead that night was amazing.

He smirked, but nodded along. "I forgive you." It was really weird that three words could make you feel better. "I apologize for losing my temper, and forgetting my priorities when all our lives were at risk. It was only providence that kept us from being killed. I should have known better." He looked downward, and I pursed my lips.

"I forgive you," I said at last. "As long as you don't try to feed us any more of your excuses, or those zedded fake apologies."

"I promise." He said solemnly.

I nodded, feeling better already. "Cheers then, Fido!" He glowered at me, and I coughed to smother a completely un-Yardie-like giggle. "I mean, Holmes. Merry belated Christmas!" Our cups chinked together, and the cheery noise made us both grin.


	6. Thunderclap

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Let's all give a round of applause to Doctor Watson, who has FINALLY been kind enough to join us, in the longest chapter yet(twice as long as the others, but I couldn't bear to cut it in half and make you all suffer through more long-winded fluff). My physical description of the good doctor comes from the few illustrations shown of him in the original stories, as well as several movies and shows (admittedly, as much as I dislike the 2009 movie, I thought they at least picked a decent actor for the part of Watson in appearance, if nothing else). Poor Holmes still isn't having a decent time of it, though he gets to vent in the next chapter, much to Lestrade's dismay. Expect sparks to fly, good readers!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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**_Chapter Six: Thunderclap_ **

**Lestrade**

As nice as it was to be back on Holmes's good side, it definitely cut down on the amount of time I had to find out from Hargreaves how Watson 1.0 was doing. Even though he'd never admit it, even under pain of death, Holmes was definitely getting lonely sitting up in Baker Street all by himself day in and day out. Even though he was still able to do _some _cases off the record, the strict laws about P.I.s needing a superior officer _in _the police, and needing to be properly registered as official consultants meant that he couldn't just run out chasing bad guys day in and day out. Whatever he _did _do was on the sly, so to speak, and most of the fun stuff was off limits unless he wanted to be criminally charged for vigilantism. If it wasn't so uncharacteristic and time-restricting, I probably would have found the weird excuses he came up with for me to visit _cute_.

"Hey Doc." I said tiredly, pulling into a space between two buildings and flipping on the cruiser's communicator. "Sorry I haven't been able to call much. I'm getting extra shifts at work, and when I'm not _there_ Holmes is dragging me around." He seemed in a cheery mood, nodding along happily enough.

"Not a problem, my dear, not a problem. In fact, if you will pardon my saying so, it _is_ much easier to work without anyone underfoot." Well that might have been insulting if he didn't sound so jolly.

I smirked, not sure if grinning would be too much for my face to handle—it felt like a smile might break my cheeks. That was just what happened after twelve hours on the job. "So how's he doing?"

"Oh, good, good! I am _quite _impressed, as a matter of fact. He's breathing quite well on his own, and he's responding well to outside stimulation. I've—"

"Wait, he's not in the… the…" Oh _zed_ what was the name of it? "The… er… _thingy_? With the liquid? He's not in that anymore?"

Sir Evan shook his head pleasantly (did he do _anything _unpleasant? I felt like I was talking to Santa Claus) and cleared his throat _again_. "I removed him yesterday. It will be another twenty-four hours or so before he begins to regain consciousness. In the meantime I hope to avoid another… er… _outburst _like Mr. Holmes' by transferring vital information directly into his subconscious."

"So… he's kind of learning while he's asleep?" I took a wild stab at it, recalling the memorable moment in which Holmes had successfully sprinted two hundred yards in sixteen seconds flat wearing nothing but a hospital gown. Ah, good times… They say the first meeting defines the friendship, after all.

Hargreaves nodded. "That _is _the principle, though I'm not entirely certain how much information he'll retain. It will hopefully be enough for him to keep a rational mind." It was pretty obvious he was also reflecting on Holmes's less than stellar initial reaction. Not that you could blame a guy.

"I'm sure he'll do fine." I asserted. "Anyway, Sir Evan, I've gotta fly. Otherwise Holmes might starve." Honestly, for his next 'rebirthday' I was getting him a cookbook and a ladle. Otherwise he'd spend the rest of his life eating fast food and those disgusting meal capsules I regretted ever showing him. Somewhere between buying them and eating them, Holmes had skipped the part about the things only being healthy as an _occasional _meal supplement. Not an excuse to avoid setting his kitchen on fire. As for the fast food, I knew a few people that would kill Holmes for his metabolism _and _his stomach; the guy could down just about anything without so much as getting the hiccups, let alone gaining weight.

"Alright, my dear. If you would be so kind as to come over around suppertime tomorrow, I believe the Doctor will be stirring."

"Will do, Doc."

The excitement was almost unbearable, but I fought it down. If I was going to visit Holmes, I couldn't go there bouncing around. He was already suspicious about what I was up to, even if he didn't bring it up. I don't think he wanted to risk losing the only company he had while Robo-Watson was in the repair shop. Nonetheless, while I drove I tried to fight down the bubble of glee in my stomach, and by the time I swooped down to land I was back to my normal, if overworked and tired, self.

The best thing about Baker Street is the quiet atmosphere. There's hardly ever anyone walking along the streets, and 221b is so out of the way, when you're there you might as well be in another city entirely. So it came as a surprise that even outside I could hear a ruckus coming from within the apartment. I climbed up the steps two at a time and then pulled open the door to the sitting room.

I let out a squawk of surprise when the form of Deidre fell onto me. If I hadn't already been braced for something (Of course, I was thinking more along the lines of one of Moriarty's plots), we both would have taken the express route down the seventeen stairs. "Oi, watch it!" Have I mentioned yet how much I absolutely dislike that girl? Because I really do.

"You watch it." I snapped back, looking over her shoulder into the sitting room. A wave of studio laughter wafted out. "What on Earth are you doing in there?"

"Holmes is letting us use the big holoscreen to watch these old movies for history!" Wiggins popped his head around the doorframe. "You should see some of 'em, Inspector! They're pretty funny!"

"Yeah, even Mr. 'Olmes laughed a' one of 'em!" Deidre piped up, brushing past me into the sitting room.

I hesitated at the doorway, unsure if I was willing to endure three teenagers for the rest of the night. As if on cue, Holmes appeared from the hallway, meeting my curious look with a raised eyebrow. "They brought food, and I wasn't sure if you would be coming." He explained sheepishly, holding up a box of Chinese.

"I see." I glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a weird looking character fall dramatically across the screen while the audience howled with laughter. "Er… is it any good?"

"The food or the entertainment?"

"Both."

Holmes 'hummed' and picked at the meal, then sighed, tossing it into the nearby garbage can. "No. Not particularly. Would you like to come in anyway?" He held open the door and I entered against my better judgment. The kids were all crowded up front, leaving the couch free for the claiming, which I took advantage of beautifully. Stretched out, it was hard to believe I was still awake, especially when the weight of exhaustion suddenly pressed down on me.

Last I remember, another cartoon character was falling over himself, and Holmes was laughing along with the Irregulars at the simple humor.

* * *

Waking up in a strange place is never the best feeling in the world. There's that moment of absolute panic you get when you can tell you're not in your own bed. Then you can smell foreign sheets, or you notice that the pillow's too soft and it all feels _wrong_. As a kid, I never had sleepovers. Even as an adult I hate falling asleep outside my own room. It creeps me out.

There have been lots of times that I've fallen asleep in 221b, though. Especially when I visit after a long shift. Sometimes it feels like I just blinked and forgot to open my eyes again, and other times I make a point to take a nap while Holmes and Watson are off minding their own business. Usually I can wake myself up after a while and stumble home, and even when I don't, Holmes _knows _I don't like sleeping away from my own place.

All things considered, I felt refreshed at least. Light was streaming through the bay window, and without thinking I snuggled deeper into the blanket.

Wait. _Blanket_?

I opened my eyes and examined it. Though not in the best shape, the comforter was warm, and it smelled strongly of tobacco and chemicals. _Holmes's then_ I asserted in my mind. I'd have to thank him later, even if I was still irked that he hadn't woken me up last night. Then I wouldn't be lying here listening to someone snoring five feet away, which didn't make much sense, given the situation.

I turned on the couch, cursing when my neck protested the movement. Across from me, Sherlock Holmes was sprawled on his armchair, one leg somehow hooked over the back while his head rested on the right arm of the thing. Every few seconds his left foot would twitch, but otherwise he seemed to be dead to the world. About time too—I was starting to get worried about the black circles under his eyes.

I sat up on the couch and yawned. I must have been louder than I thought, because almost instantly Holmes was awake, though judging by his grimace his neck was even stiffer than mine. "Lestrade?" He mumbled, and I had to snort at what might have been the worst bedhead I've ever seen someone have without ever getting in the bed itself. He self consciously raised a hand to his hair and tried to flatten it. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"Turns out we both fell asleep, I guess." I shrugged, still wrapped up in the blanket and feeling drowsy. "How can you sleep on a chair though? Your neck must be _screaming_."

He mumbled something dazedly and stood up, stretching. "One can train one's body to sleep in the most unusual places if need be. An armchair by the fire is hardly the strangest spot in which I have ever found Morpheus." I didn't even want to _know _where the strangest place was. So I left it at that and pushed off the blanket, yawning explosively as I did. "What time is it?" I asked, trying to keep my hair from going _completely _fuzzy.

"Mmh… a quarter past six." Holmes croaked, dragging his feet across to the holoscreen and flicking on the latest news report. He laid his head on the desk while I grinned; and here I thought Holmes was a morning person. Given the glazed look in his eyes as he watched the morning news reel, _that _was definitely false. I watched over his head for a minute, but the peppy voice made my eyes itch. I really wish I knew how that woman always acted so happy. It just made you even more irritated in the morning.

"Anything exciting?" I asked, still not willing to start walking around.

"No. Nothing more interesting than a jet-skiing canary. How the blazes _that _got on a national news broadcast is be-ee-yond me." He tripped over a word as he stretched languidly, and I couldn't help thinking of the pet cats I had as a kid. _Pfft, nice enough if you're the one that feeds him… or gives him cases_. I grinned at my own thoughts before standing up, staggering tiredly and rubbing my eyes.

I shrugged and made my way to the door. "Yeah… s'much as I'd _love _to watch a canary jetski, I've got to grab a shower and breakfast before work." _And I've got a Victorian Era doctor to introduce to modern times_.

Holmes raised his eyebrows, "Work? When was the last time you had a day off?" Jeez, if I didn't know better I might have thought he sounded genuinely concerned. Being that it was Holmes, I decided it was just his curiosity coming out, as usual.

"Eh… sometime in October, I think." I answered vaguely, trying not to think about my dismal social life. Really, people'd stopped bothering to ask if I wanted to go out; in the past six months I'd gotten four days off. "But anyway, I'm pulling another twelve hour shift. Ten 'til ten." Alright, maybe that was a bit of a lie. I was only working until five-thirty, but then I would be at Hargreaves' place until who knows when. Better to cover my bases.

"Oh."

I glanced over, but Holmes was fiddling with the corner of one of _the _journals. I waited a few seconds, though he didn't seem to be focused on me anymore, so I said my goodbyes and left. It was nice to know that in about twelve hours' time I wouldn't have to worry about him being all alone in Baker Street anymore.

* * *

I've never felt a day go by so slowly before in my life. It felt like every minute was an hour, even during a high-speed chase through congested air space above New London. Every few feet I'd wonder about what might happen at six o'clock. Would the Original Watson even wake up? What was he going to say? What did he look like? Hargreaves had mentioned on one of our calls that he'd managed to sort out the pigmentation issue with the cell rejuvenation process.

So was he going to look like Robo-Watson? Speaking of which, what the zed were we going to do when _he _was back in action? The techies said it was only going to be another week or so before they got the last few parts to finish repairing him. What was _Holmes _going to do with _two _Watson's? Was the original going to be offended by the Compudroid model? What if _our _Watson was the offended one?

By the end of the day I was really wondering if I might be a closet masochist or something. _Normal _people didn't go out of their way to make life this complicated. Even if I wasn't a masochist, I was still a glutton for punishment. Holmes's curiosity already made a full night's sleep rare. Now there was going to be a _pair _of two hundred year-olds calling me at all hours of the day asking stupid questions.

I fired up the engine of my cruiser (Grayson had started giving me the oldest models, since the new ones seem to attract more laser fire) and pulled away from the Yard, sighing as I drove through the darkness of the city, even at five forty-five. Another reason why winter's my least favorite season. It gets dark too fast, and the sun takes too long to come up again. I sort of wished we could have woken the original Watson up when the sun was shining; as it was now, I felt like New London wasn't making such a great impression on the horizon. In fact, when I tried to put myself in Victorian shoes, it looked downright scary.

I hoped he didn't think he was in Hell or something.

Hargreaves' manor stood out in front of me and with one last deep breath I lowered to the ground and jumped out. I was right on schedule, and a mechanized servant answered the door when I rang, then led me into the basement. I almost laughed when Sir Evan looked up; the goggles he wore made his eyes look huge. "Oh good! Good! You're just in time, Inspector. Really, you must have a sixth sense about these things. The poor man has hardly been conscious for ten minutes."

"H-he's awake?!" I blurted, looking around wildly. "Is he okay? I mean, he's alright, right? He's in one piece?"

I hate it when people laugh at me, and Hargreaves is no exception. I set my teeth when he chuckled away at my expense, though I was surprised when he pushed a pitcher of water into my hands. "All's well, my dear. Aside from some understandable shock, I must say he's doing a far cry better than our other friend." He hummed in satisfaction, and my mind automatically leapt to a big cat enjoying a successful hunt. "It appears allowing information to enter the subconscious while he slept worked much better than I would have ever thought. But enough of my rambling," He waved me towards the door that I remembered led to the cleanroom. "I suppose you ought to meet him. I only left a moment ago to fetch a pitcher of water."

The feeling I got from approaching the door was similar to what I'd felt when I went to meet Holmes for the first time. _'Welcome to the twenty-second century' probably isn't the best thing to say this time either_ I thought sarcastically, though the memory of Holmes's expression would amuse me for the rest of my life. I laid my hand on the doorknob and wondered if I should knock or not. What if he didn't even like me, or he didn't want to see Holmes? Oh God, what if I was stuck with a bitter old man?

I knocked hesitantly on the door. Hargreaves hadn't told me to wash my hands or anything, so I assumed the cleanroom didn't have to be so clean anymore. I tried to hear some telltale sign of life through the wood door, and for a few seconds I heard nothing.

"Come in."

_That _was Watson? That didn't sound anything at all like the elastomask _Robo_-Watson used! I pushed open the door and put on my friendliest smile. I scanned the room in one glance, trying to take a page out of Holmes's book. There was a hospital gown in the corner, which I assumed meant he was either naked (unlikely) or dressed. Two glasses were on the bedside table, as well as an empty pitcher. At last, I got up the nerve to look at my latest pet project.

I would have thought Sir Evan hadn't fixed the pigmentation problem, if he hadn't already said that he did. The Watson I grew up with on old holoshows and movies was a dumpy, brown-haired, plain-looking Holmes admirer. He was always the comic relief, stumbling around a crime scene making obvious conjectures and fawning over ever step Holmes took. He walked with a waddle, and his face was half hidden behind a mustache that could have made any walrus jealous.

He was _not _what I was looking at now.

It might have been rude to stand there staring, but I really didn't know what else to do. He was perched on the edge of the pallet, dressed similarly to Holmes in a formal suit, complete with a black tie and the frock coat (where in the world Hargreaves had found _that_ was beyond me) Holmes had replaced with the Inverness cape. He looked mildly confused, but it didn't take much to see that he was good-natured, even attempting a tentative smile as I kept staring like an idiot.

Turns out Watson wasn't much like how the movies described him, physically at least. Since he was sitting down, I couldn't say for sure, but he was definitely close on six feet tall; not as tall as Holmes, but not exactly a hobbit either. Unlike the pop culture model, he was slim—again, unlike Holmes, whose body looked lean in the way a starving artist looks lean—and had the same sort of frame you'd see on an athlete. His hair wasn't dark brown like Robo-Watson's elastomask. In fact, it was closer to the color of Holmes' when he had first been revived; a sandy brownish blond (I could almost hear Holmes insulting my '_powers of description_'), just long enough to tickle his ears and forehead. His eyes were a shade of light, happy-go-lucky blue—the same color you might wrap a kid's birthday present in.

"Er… Doctor Watson?" _Zed, _now I felt like an idiot.

He smiled, and his mustache (nothing at all like the one Robo-Watson had, this one was short, well-trimmed and what I guessed was Victorian military standard) bristled a bit. "I'm not entirely certain I would classify as a doctor anymore, Miss, but I suppose I _do _have the diploma and license, whatever state of decomposition they have reached…" Holmes was right; this guy definitely had a streak of humor. I smiled back and held out the pitcher.

"My name is Inspector Beth Lestrade, Doctor Watson. I work with New Scotland Yard." I watched with amusement as Watson sipped his water, paused, and then looked at me incredulously. "Yep. My great, great, great, et cetera grandpa was the same guy you worked with."

"Still with the police, I see." He nodded approvingly, and I couldn't help but be amazed again at the difference between the widely accepted version of Watson, and the real deal I was standing next to. His voice wasn't as deep as Holmes', nor was it as high as Robo-Watson's. What it _did_ have that set him apart was an easy-going, calming tone. I had only met him two minutes ago, but I could already see how he and Holmes had gotten along so well. He was the perfect counterbalance to Holmes's personality. "I must confess, I would never have dreamed that young women would be inspectors in the police force of London." He brought a hand up to his head with a sigh. "Flying cars, moving pictures, guns that shoot light…"

I pursed my lips and shuffled my feet a bit. I _wanted _to drag him out now and bring him to Holmes. My plan was finally taking shape after over three months and I couldn't deny being restless. "You're not in _Victorian_ England anymore!" I said lightly, and to my surprise he laughed loudly. Huh. Who'd have thought not all nineteenth century men were as stony as Holmes?

"No. I suppose I am not." I watched him stretch and stand up, looking a bit shaky on his feet. "Good Lord, this _is _a dream, isn't it?" He muttered. "I'll wake up in a moment and have my breakfast, won't I?" He took a few tentative steps, appearing to test his legs. "Imagine, two centuries going by… waking up without those wretched old scars…" I felt like I was being forgotten as he talked to himself. I guessed by 'wretched old scars' he meant the wounds that had brought him back to England after serving in the army. I followed him to the door, grinning now as he stood there, still reciting his monologue.

I reached forward and rudely pinched his upper arm, inciting a yelp as he snatched it away and glanced back at me. "May I ask what _that _was for, Inspector Lestrade?" He _was _different than Holmes, wasn't he? Holmes would have growled and pinched me back, even a year ago. At least the Doctor apparently had some courtesy.

"If you were sleeping that would have woken you up." I explained happily, pulling the door open for him. "I'm afraid this is really real, Doctor Watson. You're in the twenty-second century."

He stood stock still for a minute, looking so utterly confused that I felt bad for him. "Good Lord," He murmured, following me at last. "I am…"

* * *

Doctor Watson's first adventure in a hovercar was terrifying to say the least. The moment we lifted off from the ground he started glancing back and forth the interior as if wondering what might explode and kill us first. After five minutes he seemed to calm down, and even managed to speak through clenched teeth, until we came within view of New London.

Holmes had calmly mused that it was uglier than he remembered. Watson, on the other hand, seemed ready to jump out and let the ground do away with him. I did my best to get the situation under control by patiently explaining the completely _safe _way engineers had made cars fly, as well as giving a brief history lesson on what had changed in London within the last two hundred years. He didn't seem to listen much, instead sitting with his eyes screwed shut as we swerved around other cars, though when I mentioned Big Ben, he seemed curious about whether or not it was still intact.

When we pulled up to 221b, I glanced at Watson, but if he recognized where we were through all the modern adjustments he didn't say anything. He seemed more interested in lurching out of the hovercraft and back onto the ground with an expression that suggested getting him into a cruiser again anytime soon was going to take an act of God. Before he could look around and possibly put things together, I rudely shoved him through the door, where his eyes widened in surprised delight.

"Why, Inspector, if I didn't know better, I would say this was—"

"Shh!" I tapped my lips with a finger and waved him toward the stairs. As luck would have it, I'd seen Holmes's shadow leaving the sitting room the moment we arrived, which left a nice window of opportunity if I played my cards right. I motioned for Watson to keep going and followed him quietly, pulling open the door and glancing around for any sign of Holmes. The coast was clear, so I waved Watson in quickly.

"Inspector, what—"

"Shh! Just sit there!" I pushed him toward his own chair; the one Holmes hated other people sitting in. Watson looked at it with instant recognition and sank down with an expression of disbelief. "Do you expect for me to believe that Sherlock Holmes is actually _here_, Inspector Lestrade?" He demanded, and I cringed as his voice wafted across the room.

"Lestrade? I thought you were working until ten o'clock? And who in Heaven's name have you brought this time?" I grinned impishly when Holmes appeared in the hallway, approaching from his bedroom. "What are you grinning about, anyway" He entered the room and his eyes immediately landed on the man occupying the chair by the fire. At first, it looked like he didn't recognize anything. In fact, it was only when Watson's eyes widened to the size of small dinner plates that Holmes seemed to catch on, if his dropping jaw meant anything.

"Sherlock Holmes, meet John Watson! _Again_!" I exclaimed.

The seconds ticked by, and eventually Watson made to stand up, holding out a hand as Holmes's face drained of any color whatsoever. For a second I thought he might be sick all over the carpet.

Then, for the first time in _two _lives, Sherlock Holmes crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.


	7. Lightning Strike

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: And now, back with popular demand... WATSON. You can expect several chapters from his PoV as the story goes on. Anyway, a decidedly less happy/feel good chapter. Genuine anger, confusion, and drama unfold, and dear Lestrade gets an earfull because of it.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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**_Chapter Seven: Lightning Strike_**

**Watson**

My name is John Hamish Watson.

I was born February twenty-third, eighteen fifty-one.

I last remember lying down for a nap on March twenty-seventh, at the age of seventy-five.

A week ago I was dead.

I am now in the year two thousand one hundred and five.

My body is approximately twenty-six years of age.

I have just induced Sherlock Holmes to faint.

As a child, my father once told me that by reviewing the facts in a strange situation, one could come to realize how the circumstances came to be. I was a firm believer of this method throughout my adult years, and often kept a level head by assuring myself that everything really did make sense, even if it didn't seem so at the time. My friendship with Sherlock Holmes took this method of logic to an uncharted level, one of which I was in the habit of recording in personal journals as well as publicized stories.

I regret to say, the events of the last two hours had torn my tried and true logic to shreds. Surely this wasn't Hell, for the lack of brimstone is obvious, and the Devil surely would not give me a youthful body deprived of those old wounds that had come to ache so. Yet, if not Hell, I would have to concede that I was truly a reanimated figure, two hundred years after my own time.

I was not sure which troubled me more.

Holmes continued to lie on the floor as I mulled over the bizarre hand fate had played. He, too, looked strikingly different than the last time I had seen him. In the most recent memory I had of Sherlock Holmes, he had been an elderly man like myself, and we had taken a long walk through the city, retracing our steps of old. In spite of our apparent good health, there had been a feeling about that last meeting which had made it final in our minds. I could recall his tired gaze as we wandered, and the strange, sentimental things he had spoken of.

When at last we had made our way to the train station, where he was to return to his lonesome cottage in the Sussex Downs, the dismal feeling of inevitability had built to such a strange level that we embraced before he boarded his train, a gesture almost unheard of throughout our many years of close friendship. I could hear in my mind his final words to me. "_Farewell Watson, I believe we shall meet again_."

He had, according to later reports, passed peacefully in his sleep somewhere between London and his home. His funeral had been just the sort of affair he would have loathed; past clients and nobility spanning Europe had been in attendance, and the crowd was overwhelming. Everyone from the lowliest seamstress to the highest nobility had been seated in the same church to pay their final respects to one who was beyond doubt a man among men, leaving the streets of London unnervingly bare. Even hardened criminals had mingled with policemen to salute the fallen genius. I had said in my eulogy that after many close calls, it was truly the end of Sherlock Holmes. I would never have suspected that his final words would hold quite so true, or that I had been quite so wrong.

I was rocked back into the present (and such a present it was!) by the young inspector's distress over the prone form of my friend. I felt, beneath the shock and uncertainty of my situation, a definite relief that he had not been alone in such a strange place. Though I knew Holmes to be far more adaptive than most men, I could only imagine how he had responded to this; for it went against the logic he clung to as a drowning man clings to a lifering.

I knelt beside Holmes and on instinct took his pulse. The healthy, solid beat cemented what I had already known—he was in no real danger, he had simply suffered a great shock. "You needn't worry, Inspector. If you would be so kind as to fetch some water, I imagine he'll be himself again in several minutes" I smiled encouragingly at the young woman, and she nodded shakily. I thought I heard her say _"He's going to kill me for this."_ But I couldn't be certain. In the meantime I took the liberty of loosening Holmes's tie and collar, as I had for many other sufferers from fainting spells.

Before he returned to consciousness, I took some time to look at my old friend, amazed by the change in him. I could scarcely recall how he had looked in our youngest years—in fact, I don't believe we knew each other when we were both so young—but I knew for certain that his hair had always been a shade of startling black. Yet it was clearly brown by the bright electrical lighting we were subject to, with tips that were an even lighter shade.

He had adapted, I observed, to the modern world as well as a man could. Though his style of dress was clearly out dated for this new time, it was still decades beyond the starched collar realm of Victorian England. The style of his hair too was certainly not something any self-respecting gentleman in our time would have worn, for though it was appropriately short, it was also outrageously disorganized. A far cry from his well-groomed appearance of old.

Or perhaps it _was_ well-groomed, given the century. My head throbbed painfully at the bizarre scenario, and I was grateful for Inspector Lestrade's prompt return with a pitcher of ice water and a glass. I took my time in filling the cup—the make of it was exquisite, beyond any that we had been in the habit of using—and dipped the tips of my fingers into the decanter. "Let's see if the old methods still work." I said to our companion in a light tone that did not match my mind-set. I then took the liberty of flicking several droplets of cold water onto Holmes's neck, for I could recall without effort that he had always been extremely temperature sensitive along his throat. Had it truly been so long ago that I had laughed at his habit of bundling scarf after scarf around his collar?

My memory served correct when his hand rose on its own accord to slap away the cold, and his eyes began to flutter open, showing that they were still unfocused and hazy, though it was only seconds before they abruptly sharpened into the cool surfaces I recollected. Upon my word, I cannot recall such a moment of perfect tension as when our gazes met. It passed in an instant, however, and I offered a hand. "I say, Holmes. Your eyes are nearby blue!" It was not, perhaps, my most eloquent statement, and for a split second I feared he was about to faint again. Instead, he grabbed my hand in his with a vice grip, ignoring the glass of water I had offered.

"The…" He breathed in rapidly. "The Giant Rat of Sumatra..."

I could not follow his reasoning immediately, but answered promptly to chase any doubt from his mind of my authenticity. "Was a nasty little blighter that took half the skin off your left hand when you encountered it." I smiled as reassuringly as I could, though I was certain the gesture was lacking in credibility. The way he had asked such a question set me on edge. We had always agreed that the case of the giant rat was one the world would never be able to handle; for it to be the first topic he dredged up was curious indeed. Clearly, he was concerned with my legitimacy, though I could not imagine how anyone else could have possibly been in my stead. "And my poor bull pup?" I asked at last, raising an eyebrow in a manner which had once been a habit of ours when we asked questions of the other.

He groaned, sitting up as some weak color returned to his cheeks. "Took an unhealthy liking to my toes and had to be thereafter banished to the countryside." His expression of wonderment then made my chest tighten on its own accord, and I clenched his hand in mine, amazed as I always was by the impossibly long fingers. "It _is _very good to see you, Holmes."

I was stunned then, for in only an instant he had pulled me into such a tight embrace that I could scarcely breathe. The shock faded quickly though, and I returned the rare affection as well as I could with my arms pinned to my sides. "Holmes, I give you my word that I won't vanish, but I might expire again if you don't allow me to breathe." I squirmed then, and he released me, the tips of his ears turning pink as I could recall they often did in embarrassment.

We both lapsed again into stunned silence, and my mind continued to reel with information and emotion. The idea of being in a world two hundred years ahead of my own was baffling enough, to add Sherlock Holmes to the mix was almost too much for my brain to comprehend. Our staring contest was eventually interrupted by the quiet clearing of a throat nearby.

Ah, Inspector Lestrade! She had admittedly fled my mind during the emotional encounter, and judging by the expression of growing embarrassment on his visage, so had she from Holmes'. She was, it seemed, quite pleased with the developments, and I must confess I was somewhat offended by her smug expression.

I glanced across at Holmes then, and was alarmed by the thunder that was spreading across his features. The self confidence our friend had been expressing faded rapidly, and I stood in sync with the detective as he towered in his temper. "How…" His voice trembled with rage, and I felt a surge of pity towards the poor girl. "How _dare _you?" Knowing him as I did, I side stepped wisely out of his path as Holmes began to pace, though I had yet to fully understand the reason for his feelings. Had the inspector done something? It was hardly like Holmes to become so enraged over a frivolity.

"Was it not enough for you to meddle in the affairs of _one_ dead man, Lestrade?" He cried at last, flinging out a hand in his emotion. "And of all people, you chose the one man I would have killed for to let rest happily in a grave! The single person I would have given my own life again to keep from this twisted existence!" I stood in stunned silence as he raved wildly, and I could not decide what I felt. Did my heart go out to Holmes, whose anger seemed justifiable, from what I'd seen of this new age, or did I feel for Miss Lestrade, who appeared near to tears beneath the fire of his temper.

"I have always known you to be selfish, and I know you have never considered the consequences of your actions, but this…" His voice was building to the rare roar I had scarcely ever heard.

"Holmes, I only did it because I thought you would be _happy_!" Goodness, the young woman won my respect for her bravery. Few men had ever had the gall to stand against Holmes in a temper. "I'm tired of you being depressed all the time, and I _know _you missed him! You told me you missed him! I thought—"

"You can _think?_ A shame you haven't displayed _that_ rare talent recently!"

"Just stop shouting and _listen_!"

"You've brought yet another contented dead man back from the grave, what am I supposed to listen to?"

"I only did it because you were miserable!"

"You cannot simply restore innocent men to life on a whim, _you damned little fool_!"

Throughout this I sat in stunned silence, but abruptly I felt indignant anger at Holmes's crass treatment of a young woman, however to blame she was for the situation. I have always been the soft hearted one between us, and I stood and approached Miss Lestrade as her lips trembled and she began to sniff pitifully. "Holmes, that's quite enough." I said as sharply as I dared, unwilling to stir his anger any further. "I believe we had all best get some rest and address this as civilized people at a later date."

The inspector shirked away when I made to lay a hand on her shoulder, throwing a wounded glance at Holmes as if my approach had been _his_ fault. Good lord, was this how my time was destined to be spent? Was my new purpose in life simply to deflect Holmes's anger from those around him? "What do you say, Holmes?" I proposed gently. "None of us are in a proper state to discuss the situation." Imagine, I had returned to life only hours ago, and I was acting as the logic of Sherlock Holmes. The irony was enough to make my head spin.

The anger, though still present in his eyes, had faded from my good friend's expression, and he nodded grimly along with my suggestion. "You haven't changed, Watson." He remarked as fondly as he could with fury still tingeing his words. "Indeed, we would do best to continue this later." I was quite surprised to see that he looked at Miss Lestrade with evident concern, despite the tongue-lashing he had just given her. "Can you get home all right, Lestrade?"

Again my respect for the young woman was bolstered as she stubbornly wiped at her eyes and nodded, sparing Holmes naught but a chilly glance. "I'll be fine. It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor. I'll see you again sometime soon. Good_night_." She slammed the door on her way out, and the sitting room descended into uncomfortable silence.

"Forgive me, my dear Watson, but I feel as though if I blink you shall vanish into the ether." Holmes murmured from where he stood beside the fireplace. "I cannot say for certain if this is a dream…"

I walked to him and with perhaps a trifle more force than was proper, I pinched his upper arm as Miss Lestrade had pinched mine. Holmes flinched, hauling back his limb and I grinned at him contently. "A page I took from the young inspector's book. To quote her, '_I'm afraid this is really real_'." For a moment he looked disconcerted, but then we dissolved into near hysterical laughter, leaning on the mantle and each other in our mirth.

"Though I am quite pleased to see you again, Holmes. I should like to be getting to bed; it has been a very trying day." I made for the steps leading to my old bedroom and stopped. "Assuming, that is, there is still a bed to return to?"

"My good man," Holmes sank into his chair with an expression that still rang of utter shock. "So long as Baker Street remains, you shall always be welcome."


	8. Lull in the Storm

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: This is really just a fluffy little filler chapter for the most part. Watson gets introduced to the New Baker Street Irregulars, and decides to tell them a few stories Holmes isn't so cocky about. HUGE thanks to ElizabethLestrade for beta-ing the beast for me!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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**_Chapter Eight: Lull in the Storm_**

**Watson**

"This is the international news link."

"Like… a newspaper?"

"In a roundabout way, I suppose."

"If a newspaper spoke." 

Holmes laughed then. "Precisely." His hands roved over the device I now knew to be a _keyboard_, and the screen changed rapidly, reflecting a blond, cheerful woman. I must have looked confused, for he continued unprompted. "She is a new age reporter, Watson."

"A far cry from those we had in our day." I recalled the prying men who had often pursued us through the London streets, looking for interviews on old cases and new alike. If I were to judge the expression my friend was sporting, the annoyance generated by such individuals had not diminished over time.

"I imagine you shall meet them eventually." He said tersely. "Heaven knows they have made it a personal mission of theirs to follow _me _about." Indeed, it did appear some things would never change. "Most important goings-on in the world will be displayed here. For all its faults, it _is _an infallible information source."

I had been alive, or should I say _awake_, for less than twenty-four hours. In that time I had witnessed Holmes in a fury, as well as in a state of giddiness the likes of which I have very seldom seen. I slept in my old bedroom, and on waking early this morning I was unsurprised to see Holmes still seated before the fire. Together, as in old times, we sat in companionable silence, still basking in the joyful, but tremulous feelings our unexpected reunion had wrought, until I made the passing comment that he wasn't smoking his infernal pipe.

For the next three hours, until the present moment, I had begun the slow process of educating myself on the new century. I now knew that tobacco had a large restriction placed upon it, and though he had, through illegal means, come to possess it, there simply wasn't enough for him to partake in it every hour as he used to. Guns were also under a worldwide ban, and aside from collectors and occasional eccentric criminals, the possession of them was extremely rare.

The _internet_, I must confess, went above and beyond the limits of my mind. Holmes was quick to confess his own lack of knowledge in it, and so we were in agreement to let _that_ sleeping dog lie for the present. Instead we moved through the enormous list of changes, including but not limited to vehicles, architecture, food, and _robots_. I found it baffling, to say the very least, that machines were so far advanced that they could be said to have personalities and human feelings. I attempted to make light of it, but the oddly apprehensive look in Holmes' eyes struck a chord in me. It was an expression I had seen before, when he had something important to tell me, but no idea as to how to go about saying it. I did the reasonable thing, and did not pursue the subject.

"As I told you earlier, ionizers have replaced guns in this age. Rather than maiming and often killing, they typically incapacitate an individual. There are different settings to them, including several that _do _have the potential to be lethal." Holmes explained shortly, forever lacking the patience for lengthy discussions on anything that did not pique his interest. "I believe I have one here somewhere if you would like—"

"Mr. Holmes!"

I was taken quite by surprise when the door to the sitting room was flung open. Holmes, kneading his temples, sighed. "I _do_ often wonder why I have a door at all. No one seems to respect it." He glanced at the newest arrivals, and I followed suit.

Sir Evan Hargreaves told me when I awoke that he had been able to successfully channel a great deal of vital modern information directly into my mind while I had been unconscious. It was something I was eternally grateful for, as otherwise I may have been most alarmed by the ragtag group of young adults crowding the door. The dark-skinned boy appeared to be vying with the oddly-dressed girl to be the first through, while a third and likewise curious lad remained behind them. The chair in which he sat made a series of peculiar noises and I was quite aware of his curious stare in my direction.

Though I had never been one to agree with racial divisions, I could not honestly say it had been something I took a great deal of notice with in our time. With the exception of Effie Munro and her young daughter Lucy[1], it had never come into _our_ field of work to ponder over popular prejudices in England. We were engaged to solve plausible mysteries based in the realms of fact and reason as opposed to those that traveled throughout the populace, fed by superstition and misunderstanding.

My point being, to see that such divisions had been overcome was a surprise; thought not an unwelcome one. Perhaps I would have been more alarmed, had I not already known somewhere deep in my subconscious that these changes had come about over one hundred years ago. Again I extended a silent thanks to Sir Evan Hargreaves for his magnificent foresight.

"No, Tennyson, you have not interrupted anything more important than a brief history lesson." Holmes spoke, though for the life of me I hadn't heard any question being proposed. Perhaps I had been thinking to myself while one of the other two children had spoken over the peculiar noises made by the floating chair (imagine, a world where chairs float!).

The two walking youths had apparently gotten through the door without maiming each other, and now that they had looked up, I had to smile at their differing expressions. Whereas the forefront lad had the good grace to look embarrassed at their rude entrance, the young lady was not so respectful. She appeared quite obviously interested in the situation, even taking the liberty to walk closer to look at the screen Holmes had been using. "Ionizers? Is it for a new case, Mr. 'Olmes? Are ya lookin' for a certain kinda ionizer? An' 'oo's this, anyway?"

Holmes shook his head and sighed at the rapid fire questions. "As I just told Tennyson, _no_, it is not a case. The ionizers were simply part of an explanation for my good friend Doctor John Watson." He nodded to me, and all at once I felt three sets of wide eyes on me. Feeling vaguely self conscious, I stood up and held out a hand.

"Like… _the_ Watson?" The taller boy asked incredulously. "The _real _one?"

_Real_? I looked at Holmes curiously. It sounded as though there were more than one of me. The notion made my head spin, and I lowered my hand. "Holmes?" My voice sounded extremely perturbed, even to my own ears.

He pursed his lips at the trio who had plunged me into such a state of confusion. "Yes, the _real _one, if we are using layman's terms." He glanced at me with a look that clearly said he would explain whatever I apparently was not privy to later. "Now, if I might ask _why _you have come barging in…?" Holmes raised an eyebrow in an imperious gesture that was all his own.

"Nothin' really important Mr. Holmes. Just a project for school. I'm Wiggins by the way. Er… it's really cool to meet you, Doctor Watson." I looked at Holmes abruptly at the boy's name, but my friend merely grinned so impishly that I had to return it. I shook the lad's proffered hand, confused by his strange slang. What, pray tell, did 'cool' mean? It certainly was not meant to be taken literally, if I were any judge.

The young lady glanced between Holmes and me several times. "Yeah, it's for 'istory an' we figured you were the best person t' ask. I'm Deidre, Doctor Watson. It's nice t' meet 'cha." She stuck out a hand that I observed had a different color for every fingernail. An odd lot indeed. Dare I say, I felt rather scandalized that young women were in the habit of socializing with boys their own age without supervision. Nevertheless, I shook her extended hand with a warm smile.

The final child had waited quite patiently for his own turn, and his strange chair released a long string of peculiar noises. I looked between the lad and Holmes, who smiled at me in amusement. "Young Tennyson is quite pleased to meet you, and believes Wiggins and Deidre owe him five credits each." The chuckle he released brought about my own quiet laughter.

"Awh, Tennyson. Leave it to you not t' forget anything." The boy Wiggins grumbled. "Well _I _didn't think they'd actually bring anyone else back t' life… no offence, Doc." _Doc_? Good Heavens, were there abbreviations for everything in this century?

"Yeah, an' _I_ sure didn't expect 'im to look like _this_. All those ol' movies… Isn' tha' false advertisin'?" Movies? Ah, those moving pictures! Yes, we _did _have those in our day, though I daresay they had seemed more of a novelty than any lasting source of entertainment. In fact, Holmes had only attended one showing before vowing quite animatedly to 'the moon and stars' that he would "_Never sit through such a blasted waste of time again_." To think, my own stories—short, rough pieces they had been—could ever have generated such global renown. It was nothing short of flattery, to hear children two centuries later refer to them.

Although I must confess I was worried by Miss Deidre's words. I had never taken time in my memoirs to give any accurate description of myself. It was never in the benefit of the case to explain my own appearance, and Heaven knows Holmes thought my recollections were florid enough as it was. To have added such a description would surely have induced him to forbid any more publications. I could only imagine how the people of this century had perceived me, without any picture or depiction to go by.

Holmes interrupted my train of thought then, though he was in discussion with Wiggins.

"You must improve your method, lad." He shook his head, and the boy looked rather embarrassed by Holmes's scrutiny. "Favoring your left sets you at a disadvantage from the beginning, as most men tend to their right side, where you undoubtedly strike first." He extended a closed hand towards the left side the young man's face, and on instinct it was intercepted. "Being able to strike efficiently with both hands means to be able to extend your ability to do damage. There is no such thing as a _lucky hit_. You either properly defend, or you do not."

Though I have never claimed to be as adept as Holmes in the field of observation and deduction, I made short work of inferring what they were talking about. Young Wiggins was quite clearly left-handed, and a boxer, given the typical wrappings on his hands and the small scar I could see bisecting his eyebrow. I had known Holmes in our _original _youth to be an avid and skilled boxer himself, and it did not take a great deal of intellectual effort to see he had not forsaken his pastime of old. "If I recall, Holmes," I cut in, perhaps in bad taste. "You had quite a tendency to forget defense entirely in our day. In fact, I do recall Jack Webber once put you out for fifteen minutes because of it." I smiled most winningly when the tips of Holmes' ears turned red at the reminder.

"Yes, well… I was younger then… reckless…" He muttered distractedly, a look of mortification spreading over his face as the three children looked to me incredulously. "_What hath God wrought?_" He grumbled.

"You mean the same Holmes as _this_ one?" Wiggins asked disbelievingly. "Got _knocked out_?" He shook his head. "I only ever sparred with him once an' I think I'm _still_ hurting!"

I glanced at Holmes, uncertain if his ego could handle the tale being told again, especially after being forgotten for so long. He nodded grudgingly though, and I must admit I felt happier than I had since arriving in the strange new time to be able to share my experiences anew. "Oh, I wouldn't say he was the same detective you all know now." I said slyly, taking a seat as Holmes snorted from across the room. I could see, however, that he was paying close attention, as were the three youths that crowded around. "Perhaps a trifle more inclined to foolishness, and certainly less worldly than he is at the moment. A typical young man, you might say."

"'Magine that." Miss Deidre piped up wittily. "I don't think I can think o' Mr. 'Olmes as a guy our age." Wiggins murmured in accord and Tennyson beeped what I assumed was the affirmative.

I nodded, feeling rather sagely to be sitting in an armchair with my audience huddled about on the floor. "Indeed, we were both young… once." I heard Holmes snicker again, and could only imagine what stories he might share in retribution. "Anyway, Holmes and I had only been living together a short time, and it was high summer, I believe. One morning, as we sat down to breakfast…"

The story spanned an hour, allotting several minutes during which the three youngsters sprang like rabbits downstairs to the kitchen and returned bearing tea, which was extremely helpful, for my throat had been going dry. I found myself thoroughly appreciating the wonderful audience provided by the New Irregulars, given that they were extremely intelligent and quick for their age, similar to the original Wiggins and his little band of street Arabs. They were excellent listeners, gasping and commenting at the most opportune parts of the story, which eventually led to many more as the day progressed.

Frequently I glanced at Holmes, and though he occasionally switched his location in the room, his eyes remained heavily lidded as they were ought to when he listened to an interesting tale. Occasionally he would correct one of my age-muddled facts, or insert his own retelling of an event, but for the most part he was content to listen, and I was content to tell.

It was following a particularly humorous recollection of the time Mrs. Hudson—rest her soul—had refused to allow Holmes entry to his own home when he returned in the guise of an old sailor, unable to remove the false hair and nose without solvent, that my friend announced that the Irregulars would surely miss their supper if they remained any longer. The three groaned in unison (I assumed Tennyson groaned, for the noise his chair made was dragged out) and stood up, wincing as their legs adjusted following a day of sitting still. I followed suit and stretched for good measure, amazed by the lack of pain; in our time, my old wound would have throbbed vigorously.

"I can't believe we came here for a history project an' ended up with _that_." Wiggins crowed enthusiastically, and I was heartened by their happiness. "You've _gotta_ tell us more next time, okay Doc?" I nodded, while Holmes sighed overdramatically from his seat by the fire.

"My reputation shall never recover from this, Watson."

"I 'unno," Deidre said thoughtfully. "I think you could do wit' some stories like this, Mister 'Olmes. Makes ya seem more human, y'know?"

"Yeah, how many calculating machines hafta beg their landlady t' let 'em in!"

"'zactly, my dear Wiggins!" I chuckled at the antics of our young friends, and Tennyson beeped something out to Holmes, who smiled rather tiredly at the lad.

"No, Tennyson. I'm afraid the good doctor speaks nothing but the truth, egregious though it may be. I think I should prefer his romanticized claptrap when this is over." I glared at him half-heartedly, but the raised eyebrow he sent me said enough. Clearly if I was allowed to tell such humiliating stories, he could make underhanded remarks on my old writings.

The Irregulars left after several more minutes, each shaking my hand once again before pouring onto the street, as strange looking a group as I shall ever see.

"Really Watson, was it necessary to tell them of that last incident? I almost died of the flu from the rain, and dear Mrs. Hudson was beside herself with guilt."

"Don't be ridiculous, Holmes. You had a common head cold, and she certainly was not beside herself." He looked at me with a wide-eyed expression that I could not place, and then sidled back into his chair, looking vaguely perturbed. "Holmes?"

"I fear I had forgotten some of your most enthralling qualities, Watson." He admitted in a thoughtful tone. "It bothers me."

I furrowed my brow. "Holmes, it has been _two hundred years_. Even a mind like yours cannot retain these things forever." I pointed out gently. "We cannot simply move forward acting as though nothing has changed. I have no trade to speak of anymore, least of all any medical training significant in this time, and you…" I hesitated, unsure of what to say. "I haven't the slightest idea what has become of _you_, old boy. I don't know why you were even restored to life, or what your connection is to Miss Lestrade, speaking of whom," I leaned forward and caught his gaze, however much he tried to avoid mine. "We must talk to her, Holmes. I would hate to see any lasting damage done to one of your rare friendships, least of all because of me."

"It was not about you, Watson. I assure you of that."

"It had its root in my return to life, Holmes. I consider that to be a reason, at the very least, for my involvement." His eyes flicked away from mine, and I knew his stubborn nature was at war with his good sense. "I know already that she had no intention of committing any lasting harm. To hold a grudge would be—"

"_I know!_" I wasn't alarmed by his outburst. Knowing Sherlock Holmes as I did, I appreciated his resentment of being reprimanded. For all that these many years may have changed about him, there were some qualities of his that were as solid as stone, and just as enduring. I had always prided myself for being a voice of reason to the man for whom reason was his very existence. "I know, Watson." He sighed. "If my postulation is correct, Lestrade will be paying us a visit sometime tomorrow."

"And if she does not?" I prompted.

"We shall pursue her ourselves." Holmes stood abruptly and vanished into the hallway without a word, leaving me in a state of confusion. He returned in due time, however, clutching two pipes and a small pouch that smelled of strong tobacco. "In the meanwhile, I believe it is about time I told _you_ several stories, old friend, as I had intended this morning before we were so rudely interrupted."

I took the proffered pipe quite eagerly with a smile. "I think I would enjoy that, Holmes."

"I thought you might. But the question now is where to begin?"

"Might I recommend the beginning?"

"Ah! Your humor is as pawky as ever, Watson! Indeed, the beginning will be where we start. You recall Professor James Moriarty, I trust? Yes, I thought you would…"

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[1] Refers to The Adventure of the Yellow Face: One of the few Sherlock Holmes stories in which our hero arrived at the _completely_ wrong conclusion, though the truth of the matter was still exposed by the end of it.


	9. Sleet

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Lestrade's back in the picture, and she's not a happy camper at all. No wonder. That pesky Holmes and his intolerant behavior! Who does he think he is? The world's greatest detective?! Long chapter, because I couldn't bear to cut it down to an appropriate size! Oh, and of course, thank you ElizabethLestrade again, for beta-ing!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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**_Chapter Nine: Sleet_**

**Lestrade**

I'm argumentative. Always have been, always will be. I don't mind starting a verbal war, and I was always the kid getting into fistfights in school. I think I spent half my education on in-school suspensions, cut off from everyone else with a 'droid teaching me math. I wasn't popular, either. My mom always said I was a late bloomer, and even when I _did _bloom, I didn't get much attention, coming from the resident '_weird_' family. I hailed from the 'cop clan' that got a lot of attention because of a few dumb books written by a long-dead guy. It was hard to get around the preconception that I was a snitch.

Did I overcompensate?

Hell yes.

I was a no good kid. I got into fights and brawls; I did some things I'm not proud of. I think I got chewed out by every cop in New York (including my Dad and uncle) by the time I was seventeen. I didn't clean up my act for any real deep reason. I didn't have a personal one-on-one talk with my parents, or have some epiphany. I just did everything _bad _there was left to do, got bored, and decided I could do better. My dad was an inspector in New York City, not far from where we were living, and I decided I'd just follow his example. Being a stay-at-home mom wasn't my style. Besides, you need a husband for that, and however much I dated and tested the waters, I just didn't have any luck in _that _department.

Apparently guys back then (and now, really) didn't like a girl that could punch harder than they could. I think it's the old Prince Charming syndrome. They want to be the one doing the saving and feet sweeping. Testosterone makes it a requirement to be able to win against your girlfriend in an arm wrestle. Me? Well, apparently I break the code that requires all girls to turn into damsels in distress when Mr. Right comes a-sniffing.

So I'm argumentative. I'm tough. I used to be a rotten kid and now I'm a Yardie that's got no time for beating around the bush. I don't care what people think. I get into heated arguments everyday and I'm the _only _person that can get under Sherlock Holmes's two century old skin and rile him up.

I definitely don't cry over stupid things that people say.

"_Zed_…" I looked at the damp tissue in disgust and threw it away as hard as I could. So much for _that_.

For the first time after spending a full day at home being miserable, eating as much chocolate as I could find, then sleeping fitfully until I woke up and began to repeat the process, I started to actually _think_. I couldn't believe I was turning into a sniveling wreck over stupid zedding Holmes. Sherlock busybody, meddling, depressed, annoying, doesn't-know-what-the-_zed _-he-wants _Holmes_! What right did _he _have to yell at me? I didn't even do anything. I tried to help him, which was more than he could say about everyone else in the world. They acted like he was some sideshow attraction. Every time he went out, _someone _grabbed his arm and asked for one of his _zedding _deductions. I was one of his only friends, and he ripped my head off for bringing his best friend back from the dead!

"_You damned little fool!_"

I'd _never_ heard Holmes curse. At least, not _at _someone. He didn't even curse at Moriarty, or other criminals. In fact, I'd never heard him raise his voice like _that_ before, either. The thought of it made a shiver crawl up my spine and I dabbed at my eyes again, sniffing loudly. Terrifying wasn't the right word for how it felt to be the target for that much anger from someone like Holmes.

Like I said, I've been in arguments with just about every type of person. I've encountered the type that'll shriek at you and make your ear drums ache, and people that start hissing and whispering. I've seen the ones that almost instantly take it to blows, and others that are more inclined to try and hurt you without throwing a punch. I've hardly ever, _ever _been affected by any of it. Arguments and fights just don't worry me.

But Holmes's anger absolutely petrified me. I couldn't even deny it to myself. I'd felt my knees starting to shake when he raised his voice, and when he'd thrown out a hand as he yelled, I had only just kept myself from flinching. Hearing him call me a '_damned little fool_' made me want to curl up on myself all over again, and I did, leaning back on my couch and sniffling pathetically. Part of me wanted someone to blame desperately, and wildly my mind turned to Watson.

I shook my head, making a snarl of disgust as I did. What kind of person was I to try and blame the same man that jumped in between me and Holmes, even though he didn't have to? If I only knew one thing about Watson, it was that his kindness hadn't been _exaggerated _in all those old movies. If anything it was underrated. What kind of person would stand up to their own best friend five minutes after reuniting for the first time in centuries for the sake of someone they didn't even know?

_A good one, that's what. _I answered my own question. Why was I feeling anxious at all about Watson, then? He was the key to Holmes's happiness, even if that _idiot _didn't want to admit it. That was the whole point of this, wasn't it? Holmes being happy? That was why I brought the doctor back to life. It was for Holmes, who didn't even have the courtesy of saying _thank you_ before flying off the handle!

God. No wonder I couldn't stand men. I couldn't even tolerate my own best friend!

_Ding ding! Give the girl a prize!_

_That _was why I was worrying so much.

I don't like change. Even as a kid I used to hate giving away my toys and getting new ones. I like it when things stay the same for an extended period, and if something has to change, I want it to change when _I'm _ready. Watson's return was a change I hadn't given a lot of thought to, and now that I did, I realized I didn't want it to happen anymore. I wasn't ready to give up the three-way conversations between me and Holmes and _our _Watson.

It was like when your best friend's _old _best friend moved back to town. Actually, it was an identical situation, if you sped up two hundred years and everyone involved was an adult. I was scared—genuinely scared—that Holmes was going to go back to how it had been in the past. Just him and Watson versus the world. I didn't want to turn into my ancestor; I didn't want to be a side character, getting mocked whenever I turned my back.

I didn't want to give up movie nights, even if we always argued over what to watch. I didn't want to stop visiting without warning for tea at random hours of the day. I definitely didn't want to give up fencing with Holmes, and the fun that came with it. Walking around New Scotland Yard would lose any interest without him tagging along and describing the day of everyone that walked by, and who was I supposed to make fun of for making faces at the cafeteria food we occasionally had to indulge in?

Holmes accused me of being selfish and he was right, but I wasn't ashamed of it. You only find one _real _best friend in your life, and I wasn't willing to let go of mine. But if it made him happy, I might be willing to _share_.

I stood up and grabbed my coat, pulling it over the civvies I was wearing instead of the usual uniform. After sending in an audio-only message yesterday morning about being too sick to work, they'd gone and given me the rest of the week to _recover_. So I took advantage of the situation by wearing comfort clothes for once, including my warmest, softest sweater and my coziest pants made from a yarn hybrid that was as stretchy and comfortable as cotton, but as sturdy as denim. I might not have looked stellar with my hair pulled back in a loose tail and my eyes admittedly slightly swollen, but I hoped the latter at least would fade by the time I reached my destination.

I knew what I had to do, even if it made my stomach turn nervously.

* * *

Baker Street usually had a calming effect. If you went there with a problem, you left with an answer, or a devout promise to _find _an answer. Yet, when your problem was with the solitary (or formerly solitary) occupant, going there turned your breakfast into squirming snakes. I stayed in my hovercar—a beat up old thing that hardly flew so much as fell slowly—trying to swallow the nervousness that was keeping me from opening the door and approaching the fabled seventeen steps.

At last I willed myself out of the vehicle and through the main door. I stopped again at the bottom of the staircase, and I could hear voices wafting down from the apartment. One voice I knew instantly was Holmes, and the other, though less familiar, obviously had to be Watson. I couldn't hear anyone else, which was a relief; I knew I didn't exactly look like myself. I climbed the stairs at last and before I could turn around I knocked firmly on the door, drawing my expression in until I was satisfied that I looked more composed than I felt.

If this had been a normal visit I wouldn't have knocked at all, or if I had, Holmes would have just called me in. But it _wasn't _normal, and I heard footsteps approaching the door. They were heavier than Holmes, and had a calmer pace. Watson again.

The entrance swung open and I was proven right. "Uh… hi Doctor Watson." _Zed_, why did I keep making an idiot out of myself in front of him? "Holmes isn't here, is he?" _Of course he is._ I growled in my head. "I need to talk to him." I hoped I came across as collected, though I couldn't read Watson's expression as anything but annoyingly pleasant as he waved me in.

"He's been expecting you." Watson confided with a slight smile, and I shrugged off my coat, hanging it up deliberately as far away from Holmes's Inverness cape as I could. Not surprising that he'd expect me; Holmes knew me better than _I _did sometimes. "He's been jumping up every time someone drives by." Watson continued lightly.

I glanced at him, and grimaced. "Yeah. Uh…" I faltered, "You're not going anywhere, are you?"

I'd like to have someone between Holmes's hands and my neck. Besides, I was going to have to get used to the guy being around. Might as well start off with the uncomfortable situations.

Judging by his expression, Watson took what I said the wrong way. "I'm afraid I wasn't planning on it, but I certainly could go for a walk, if you—"

"No! _No_!" I exclaimed, throwing up my hands. "I might need backup! Besides, Holmes really _would _kill me if I let you go wandering around New London by yourself." I looked around, wondering where the detective himself had secreted himself away. "You don't mind, do you?"

I decided that I liked Watson's smile. It was the sort of genuine grin that actually brightens up a room and makes you feel better. His eyes crinkled up a bit, which just made it that much better. "Not in the least, my dear. I'm happy to provide 'backup', though I don't believe it will be needed. Holmes feels quite blameworthy, even if wild horses couldn't drag it from him." I wasn't sure if that made me feel better or not. I didn't know if I really _wanted _Holmes to feel bad; after all, maybe he was a bit justified.

"I'm sorry about the other night, Doctor." I said after a lengthy pause. I tried to focus on my nails to keep my face from heating up any more than it already was. "That probably wasn't the best way to spend your first few hours in a new century."

I was surprised when he chuckled, and I looked up in time to see him shake his head. "Not at all. Really, Inspector, you have nothing to apologize for. You acted in what you felt was the best interest of Holmes, and for that you have my gratitude. Besides," His eyes twinkled mischievously and I had to grin back tentatively. "You Lestrades have a history of grating at nerves I didn't know Holmes even had. Rest assured, George Lestrade spent a great deal of his time arguing quite savagely with him. I would be rather disappointed if you broke such an age-old custom."

I raised my eyebrows in shock. In those old journals my ancestor had always come across as a stubborn old goat, alright, but not someone in the habit of arguing with _the _greatest detective alive. I'd always thought he was just another bumbling Yardie, even if he was '_the best of a bad lot_'.

I was about to ask Watson, when Holmes's bedroom door swung open and he appeared in the hall. I felt some savage pleasure in seeing that he looked awkward, standing there glancing between us. "Lestrade," His voice was level. Oh well, I guess I couldn't win 'em all. "I thought you would come. Sit down, would you? As I've said before, there's no reason to linger in doorways."

Even on a good day, I found Holmes hard to read and even harder to understand. He complained that he disliked all women because _we're _temperamental and illogical, but I think it's because he knew that he's even worse than any lady on the street. The weirdest things made him irrationally short tempered, like sitting in certain chairs or moving his papers, while things that successfully ticked off the rest of the world didn't even faze him. He was the only person I'd ever met that could calmly listen to someone barge into his apartment screaming insults, but the moment anybody dusted his furniture he was up in arms.

My point in this case was that I didn't know what to make of what he said. He _sounded _as calm as ever, but I didn't know if it was just an act and he was getting ready for another explosion. Watson waved me towards the settee though, so I sat down cautiously, making sure to keep at least one eye on Holmes as I went, even when he continued to look peaceful enough. A few minutes passed tensely, with the silence only being disturbed by the footsteps of Holmes and Watson as they sat down. I couldn't help fidgeting as the three of us glanced around.

"What were you _thinking_?" I jumped when Holmes took the initiative to start talking, and his cold tone made me wince. "You needn't look so nervous, Inspector. I only want to know your reasoning."

I bristled at that and folded my arms. He hadn't given much of a hoot about my reasoning _last _time. "Why?" I demanded testily. "So you can just yell at me some more? No thanks, Holmes. I think I'll pass." Childish, maybe, but I couldn't just hop on the '_Holmes can do no wrong_' bandwagon. Usually I was happy enough to believe he always had a good reason for what he did, but not this time.

His eyes narrowed and for a second I thought he really was going to start shouting again. Instead, he breathed out forcibly through his nose and glanced at Watson, who shrugged and waved him on. "I…" He pursed his lips and looked away like a petulant brat. "My behavior was extremely inappropriate, though I personally believe I had_ very_ good reason to react as I did." He spoke so rapidly I almost missed what he said, and judging by the look on his face, he wasn't as self-confident as he was acting. "But I _would_ genuinely like to know what the deuce could have possessed you to…" Watson to the rescue! I spared him a grateful glance when he laid a hand on Holmes's shoulder and jostled him out of his rant.

I cleared my throat, thinking about what to say. There was no zedding way I was apologizing—I didn't even think I'd done anything wrong, so it would just be a lie anyway. "I already told you. I thought it would make you happier." I explained, shrugging as my stomach clenched nervously. "You've never really explained _why _you don't like it here; in fact, you always try to hide it. Is it really _that _surprising that I did this?" I held up my hands at his indignant expression. "_Let me finish_. Zed, where're those Victorian manners?"

I wrung my hands together anxiously, wondering how to keep going. "I admit, maybe it's not my place to decide who should be coming back to life, but I can't undo what I did, and I'm _not_ sorry that I did it. It's been what, three days? Look at you! You're already eons better than you were just a week ago." I glanced between Holmes and Watson nervously. "You can be as mad at me as you want Holmes, but I only did what I thought you would want. You've never said that you _didn't_ want this. You've never even mentioned it. So… So you can't accuse me of doing something I _knew _you wouldn't want. I'm not like you; I don't just... know things."

I was surprised that Holmes had actually let me talk uninterrupted, besides a few moments where he snorted or made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Watson looked contemplative and uneasy, though I didn't exactly blame the guy; this was a weird enough situation for him already. "I…" I looked back at Holmes as he traced a pattern in the arm of his chair, drawing his knees up to his chest and sighing. "I must admit… you present valid points." He continued to visually dissect his knees, frowning. "But, why keep it a secret? Good Lord, I thought I was seeing a _ghost_."

I smiled for the first time, feeling a bit of the tension fading away. It was a relief, and I had to resist the urge to stretch as the weight came off. "Just took a page outta your book, Holmes. Maybe this'll teach you to stop with the theatrics." He smiled thinly, but still looked unpleasant.

"Yes. Perhaps I will…" Holmes mused, still dragging his fingers along the arm of his seat. He let out a sigh of frustration. "But I simply can't forgive you this time…" He finally growled, thrusting his palm against his forehead. I blinked and looked at Watson, though he didn't meet my gaze.

"I don't really expect you to." I said plainly. "I don't care if I'm forgiven. Like I said, I don't think I did anything wrong to begin with. I just don't want to go around knowing that you're mad at me." I paused, as he continued to massage his eyes tiredly with one hand. "Hol—I should probably just go." The last of my courage was running out, and I desperately wanted to flee back to the safety of my own apartment. "I-I'm sorry… that you feel that way." I stumbled over my words as I stood up. "I'll talk to Grayson when I get back to work. I'll get you reinstated as a consultant with another Inspector. Hopkins practically obsesses over you anyway, so maybe he—"

As abruptly as I'd stood up, Holmes was in front of me, pushing me back onto the settee with a genuine smile. It was the kind that made any female within twenty feet blush and stutter, not that _I _did. "I said I didn't forgive you. Not that I hate you. _Do _stop being so melodramatic, Lestrade." His hand lingered on my shoulder, and the heat was almost worryingly calming. I felt my stomach lurch pleasantly, which was completely _ridiculous_. I _hate_ it when people do that stupid hand-on-your-shoulder thing. Holmes was no exception. "And if_ you_ aren't my '_superior officer'_, I have no interest in returning to the Yard at all. Hopkins would be much too droll anyway—he would _agree _with me." I grinned as well as I could at the exaggerated look of disgust on his face. "Now, I think we should turn our attention to friend Watson, who has been most silent up 'til now. What are your feelings about this, old boy?"

The man in question looked up from the datapad he was poking at, seeming mildly alarmed at our sudden attention. "How do I feel?" He repeated, much to Holmes's apparent chagrin, seeing as he waved Watson on impatiently. "Holmes, I can't say for certain." The doctor said weakly. "I'm still confused most of the time; I don't think I've had _time _to wonder about much besides how the _deuce _I'm going to earn my keep. I find this new time fascinating, but also intimidating, and as glad as I am to be of some small service… I _do _wonder if keeping you company…"

"…Was worth being risen from the grave." Holmes finished shortly. "My _dear _Watson, you will come out of this the longest-suffering individual I have ever met." He sank into his chair with one of those flourishes I can't help but admire. It's hard to find anything that Sherlock Holmes does _without _that trademark feline grace of his. Even the way he steeples his fingers makes me think of a big, satisfied jaguar (Well, from what I've seen of them in nature vids).

"You know _just _what to say, Holmes." Watson retorted sarcastically, kneading his forehead testily.

The detective looked more put off than I would have ever managed to make him feel. "I apologize. What I intended to say is you are on this path now, whether you wanted it or not…"

"…A path others would have killed for…"

"Exactly, Watson! We mustn't lose the chance, even if we didn't want it!" Holmes exclaimed, and to our alarm he bounded up and sat on the back of his armchair, looking down at us with his eyes glittering with sudden excitement.[1] "These things cannot be changed, my good man—and woman! Our species has a remarkable capacity for adaption, therefore we must exemplify that. Moriarty shall be stopped; we can contend with our future when that has been accomplished."

I didn't_ really_ want to cut off Holmes's excited speech, but he had made me think of something, and I looked at Watson. "Oh, has he filled you in on the present-day situation?" I ignored the legendary detective's irritated glare. He was just bitter that he didn't get to reach the climax of his dramatic spiel that included leaping off the top of his chair and landing with a spectacular bang on the floor.

Watson, on the other hand, seemed thoroughly relieved that Holmes didn't get to continue. "Oh yes, Inspector. I know most imminent details concerning Moriarty, though I imagine some smaller facts may have been excluded from the explanation." He glanced at Holmes, who was still pouting on top of his perch. "I also know about the Chief Inspector's dislike of Holmes, several dozen ways in which you have spectacularly crashed one of those _machines_," I glowered at Holmes, but he didn't respond, instead huffing and looking elsewhere. "And… er… I was told about the… _Computoy_, was it?" He looked between us curiously. "The robot… that…" His voice fell away, and he glanced around uncertainly again.

"Compu_droid_, Doctor," I corrected. "You'll meet him in a few days, even though I really don't know _what _we're gonna do about it." He looked perturbed again, which incited a sigh to escape me. "I know it's—"

"I understand it is very strange, Watson, but these _compudroids_ are capable of sincere human emotion. I was alarmed by it myself when first I arrived." Holmes said sharply, bounding down from the back of his armchair swiftly and approaching Watson where he was seated.

"Human emotion? But Holmes, a machine _can't…_"

"Then don't think of him as a machine. Goodness knows he doesn't act like one. You _must _understand, old friend, the Compudroid has been my most stalwart companion until now," I glared at him, and he fumbled for a save. "_Excluding _our dear Lestrade. My point is, essentially, I cannot in good mind shun him, even if he _was _meant to replace _you_, dear boy."

"I'm afraid I cannot fully understand, Holmes… but I assure you I will try."

"_Good_!" I was surprised by Holmes's sudden, animated shout and I blinked as he darted across the room, skidding onto the floor on his knees and fiddling with the 'big' holoscreen, as those kids put it. "Now, I believe I was about to introduce you to twentieth-century film-making, was I not, Watson?" I couldn't help but feel a sharp ache of rejection as I stood up. Looked like things _were_ going to change, whether I liked it or not.

I started towards the door, but before I'd gotten far Watson called out. "Inspector, where are you going? You should stay and watch _Start Warp_ with us!" Start _what_? I turned around in time to see Holmes sigh in mock despair.

"_Star Wars_, Watson! _Star Wars_!" He insisted loudly. "Really, man. You simply must stop getting these names wrong; you're making me laugh far too much. _Lestrade!_" I jumped to attention. "Where _are_ you going? I thought this was your favorite_ old_" He raised an eyebrow at that "film collection. Besides, I still don't know what the devil the plot's about. But they have swords, Watson!"

"_Really_? Is it that old, that swords were still—"

"_Laser _swords, Watson!"

"Oh good Heavens…"

I turned around and sat back down with a feeling of sudden warmth and affection. "You just wait, Doc!" I exclaimed, forcing my way into the movie mood. "You should see the spaceships. A lot of this stuff was actually a _basis_ for things we have nowadays!"

"Why does everyone keep calling me _Doc_?" Watson groused. "So curious…"

"This is the longest rabbit hole _I _have ever been in, Watson, and I still am never completely certain if I've reached Wonderland yet."

"The way you act, Holmes, I'd think you were born and raised there." I grinned, and he glared half-seriously, stepping back from the holoscreen as it began to broadcast the ancient movie. I'd never get over how Holmes seemed to prefer stuff that, while futuristic to _him_, was still over a century behind _us. _"Turn off the li—"

"_Shh!_ Do be quiet, Lestrade. Isn't this orchestra just _magnificent_, Watson!"

"_Shh!_ Holmes! I'm trying to read. Why in blazes is the script so small? And where is it going when it rolls away? _Good God, is that a spaceship_?!"

I sighed and settled back for an interesting few hours as Watson continued to gasp and exclaim, much to Holmes's amusement. If this was how he responded to a movie with lousy graphics, I didn't even want to _think_ about how he was going to take _real_ spaceships. "Holmes, stop _humming_." I snapped, as he started conducting the music. No wonder he didn't understand the plot! All he wanted to do was listen to the soundtrack. The first time we'd watched it, he'd gotten up in arms because the talking drowned out the orchestra.

"Are those men all right?" Watson asked worriedly, as several more ships exploded onscreen.

Holmes scoffed. "Of _course_. Really, Watson, they don't just kill off new age actors whenever they need an explosion. None of this is _real_, old boy."

"Well, it _looks_ real."

"That _is _the general point."

"Now look what you've done, Holmes, I missed something. What's that fellow's name?"

"That would be Ori Don Kenochi, I believe."

"You mean Obi-Wan Kenobi, Holmes…" I corrected in impulse.

"Of course, Lestrade. That's what I meant. Deucedly strange names, wouldn't you say, Watson?"

"Indeed."

I sighed and sat back, propping my chin on my fist. Looked like Holmes finally had someone that would rather talk about the movie with him instead of actually _watching _the zedded thing. Oh well.

As long as they didn't come asking _me _what happened while they were gabbing, I didn't mind.

* * *

[1] A vague (very vague) allusion to The Great Mouse Detective. The main character (whose name I can't recall) bounds onto the top of his armchair when he gets excited over a long dramatic speech. It's also a tip of the hat to Jeremy Brett's Holmes, who was struck at random times by remarkable fits of athleticism, and introduced Holmes's habit of leaping _over _the settee to reach the door.


	10. Light Flurries

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Another filler chapter, for the most part. Besides the blatantly flirtatious Hopkins, some spectacular motion sickness and Grayson, nothing important happens. Honest. We get to see Moriarty emerge onto the stage in chapter eleven, though! Oh, and of course, thank you ElizabethLestrade again, for beta-ing!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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* * *

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**_Chapter Ten: Light Flurries_**

**Holmes**

For five days I had woken each morning expecting to find myself alone and the sufferer of a very cruel reality in which one's good friend is not simply expelled from the ether at leisure to carry on keeping the company of a single undeserving man; _however _famous he might be. Each morning I explored the sitting room, taking into account that it did, indeed, resemble a room frequented by two men. Two pipes, two pairs of slippers, and a distinct smell that I knew subconsciously could only belong to Watson. Yet I would not get my hopes up, even as again and again I was surprised and delighted to see him wander down the stairs, groggy with sleep. Each morning, same as the one before, I would exclaim, "Watson?" And laugh quite hysterically when he eventually nodded.

Accepting his revival was difficult, and yet strangely simple. My anger at Lestrade had boiled over following my rather embarrassing fainting spell upon Watson's first reintroduction to me, but it only took twelve hours for me to realize I had no logical reason to remain upset. I was happy, for the first time in months, and though I disapproved of the idea, I couldn't deny my own feelings in the matter. Strange how she seemed to know what I wanted better than I, myself. Strange…

And rather frustrating.

"_No_." I looked at Watson in alarm as he folded his arms and took on the appearance of a harried bull. "Absolutely not. They are _death traps_." Ah. Of course, he was still hesitant on the very notion of flying cars. Unsurprising, I had not been terribly fond of them initially. I still thought they were confoundedly dangerous machines.

Lestrade sighed dramatically and pursed her lips in animated frustration. Given that she was wearing her uniform (rather than her civilian clothes) I deduced we were going to visit the Chief Inspector. _That _was a meeting I would like to put off. "Come on, Watson! We can't _walk_!"

"Whyever not?" Watson retorted.

"Well, I mean… it's _miles _away! We can't just—_Holmes, _tell him it's too far to walk!"

Now that was unfair. This was certainly not _my _battle. "Quite right, Watson! We all need the exercise." I couldn't help but chuckle when Lestrade spluttered indignantly. "Come along, Inspector!" I took the liberty of winking at her, hoping that she wouldn't take it too personally, and I was surprised when she turned an odd shade of red before hurrying out the door. "What in the world…?" It was not long before I could hear her trying to persuade Watson again to get in the cruiser.

I took my time in pulling on the infernal Inverness cape, and when I emerged from Baker Street, Lestrade appeared to have taken to gambling as an alternative means to get Watson in the 'deathtrap'. "Now, really Watson. I have no doubt you would last longer than three minutes without vomiting!" I quipped, for I must confess I felt no particular desire to walk the distance. "I daresay you can take that bet with confidence." I laid a hand on his shoulder, smiling more broadly than I believe I ever had before his rejuvenation.

He glanced at me morosely. "I do not _like_ them, Holmes. I feel as though I'll die any second when I'm in it." Good heavens, how I had forgotten Watson's ability to whine efficiently. "It's completely unnatural as well. Unsafe…"

"I can't recall you ever making a fuss over heights before, old boy!" I had read his expression like a favorite book, and could clearly see the reason for his anxiety as his eyes continuouslydrifted skyward.

"Well, Holmes, in my defense I have never been in a vehicle hundreds of feet in the air travelling at ridiculous speeds." He folded his arms anew. "I recall saying something similar to you when you climbed over me to escape one of those exotic snakes at a sideshow. If I remember correctly, you assured me in no uncertain terms that the differences between a garden snake and a python are—" I waved a hand at him hastily, suppressing a shudder at the renewed memory of that fearsome beast of a reptile. I had been unable to sit still for days after seeing the blasted thing; my skin had been positively crawling.

"_Snakes_?" Lestrade exclaimed so indignantly that I had to sigh. "_The _Sherlock Holmes is afraid of _snakes_?"

"I am _not_ afraid of them. I simply dislike them immensely." I corrected sharply, taking time to glare at Watson for dredging this up.

"What about Grimesby Roylott…"

I could not stop myself from shuddering then, though I retained my dignity by containing the desire to make a less-than-appropriate face at the reminder. "Please don't mention Doctor Roylott, Lestrade." I pleaded, though now I could think of nothing but my terrible half-minute struggle with the snakish fiend. I could not help but rub my hands over my arms to fend off the crawling sensation.

"Hah! You're _ophidiophobic_!"

Oh good heavens, was I never going to regain my reputation? "I _do not_ have ophidiophobia, Inspector." I growled testily, though when Watson started chuckling along, I felt certain that my cheeks were starting to stain pink. "If I did, the sight of Doctor Roylott would have had a decidedly paralyzing affect on my person. As you no doubt recall, I was fighting quite vigorously to get away from him."

"Hold on now, Holmes!" Watson cried, holding up his hands. "You speak of this doctor as though he were both a human _and _a snake! How on Earth can _that _be?" I glanced at Lestrade, and she returned my knowing look with a broad smile.

"Well, Watson, we would be happy to explain the situation!" I announced.

"_In _the cruiser!" Lestrade added slyly.

The promise of an interesting tale was enough to get Watson to grudgingly pack himself away in the cruiser, sitting in the backseat and staring determinedly in front of him. The beginning of the interesting case went off without a hitch, and I described quite animatedly the appearance of modern-day zoos, and the less-than-friendly greeting we had received from Monty the python.

The inspector surprisingly enough won her bet, for it was only a minute into our journey that I had to lunge into the backseat to save the upholstery by ungracefully shoving one of the ingeniously-designed sickness bags under Watson's nose. I wrinkled my nose at the disgusting noises emerging from him, but kept at my vigil until Lestrade groaned in the front. "Holmes, I think I'm gonna…" Oh good lord, I could recognize _that _tone anywhere.

"Watson! Hold this! Hold it—there's a good man. Lestrade, do not even _think _of vomiting yet!" I dove back into the front just in time to set the autopilot and hold a second bag under _her_ nose. I shall forever be grateful for my stomach, which has always had a great talent for keeping its contents under tight lock and key. Though I did not enjoy playing nursemaid to two adults, I was thankful not to join them. "Come on, Lestrade. Up you get," I helped her clamor into the passenger seat and took to the driver's side. "There we are. Just focus on containing the contents of your stomach to that bag, will you? The same applies to you, Watson!" I switched off the autopilot and turned as smoothly as I could towards a shortcut to New Scotland Yard, though judging by Watson's increased retching I had not improved my unsteady handling of hovercars.

"I'm really sorry, Holmes, but I can't stand—" I grimaced when Lestrade busied herself with the sickness catcher. "—I can't _stand_ hearing someone else puking."

"I must apologize as well, old fellow." Watson moaned from the backseat, surprising me with the amount his stomach had apparently been holding. "It's this devilish _machine_. I was so deucedly nervous that the first turn made my stomach—" I sighed morosely when he resumed his stationary position over his bag. Wonderful inventions; what went in was locked there, and it successfully safe guarded against the stench that came with bile, for which I was eternally grateful.

"Don't apologize," I said softly, focusing more on the smoothest course to New Scotland Yard than easing their misplaced worries. "Just focus on purging all that you must _before _we leave the sanctuary of the cruiser." I angled the vehicle downward, towards the open and waiting landing dock of NSY. Our arrival was marred by more retching than I should have ever thought two people capable of. I moved to open the cruiser, but Lestrade's hand curled around my forearm. I looked at her, and the strange woman blushed _again_. Now really, twice in one day was a bit much; I wondered if she might be getting sick.

"Don't… don't open up yet. Lemme finish puking." She groaned. Watson, on the other hand, had perked up considerably and seemed anxious to get out. He looked at Lestrade worriedly, and had a hand on her forehead before she could rebuke or move away. "I'm _fine_! You just made me sick with all your heaving."

Ever the doctor, Watson didn't rise to her barb, instead smiling emphatically. "Of course. I apologize, Inspector. If you're feeling better, though, it seems we're attracting some attention." She looked up and cursed frantically, moving to the controls. I found myself in a slightly awkward position, with Lestrade leaning heavily on my left shoulder to reach the powerboard. I glanced back at Watson, but he only shrugged, looking at her with a curious expression "Lestrade, you're crushing me."

"Shut it, Holmes! You landed us in the middle of the zedding dock! We're in everyone's way!" To my extreme vexation she flicked one of my ears and I could not help a yelp, covering my wounded body part with a testy glower. I reached up against my own common sense and flicked her back. "Stop it, you idiot. I'm trying to land!" _Idiot_? I looked at Watson again, and he shrugged, looking blatantly uncertain of how to respond.

"There." She sighed with relief, and I winced when she put even more weight on my shoulder, digging one of her ribs painfully in. "_Zed_, you're lucky we didn't get caught."

"Lestrade, can you get off now?" I asked, disgusted by my own meek tone although I fear the woman had me trained with ear-flicks. Blasted, painful things that they were. She hastily moved off my shoulder, allowing me to roll it experimentally in order to reestablish blood flow. I didn't look back to see if she had turned pink again (Why I thought she would, I didn't know) as I opened the cruiser and leaped out. "Come, Watson!" I exclaimed as he joined me on the ground. "The Chief Inspector will be pleased to meet you, I think."

"You didn't finish telling me about Doctor Roylott, Holmes." Watson pointed out, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, reminding me that he had interrupted the story with his impromptu illness. "Speaking of which, isn't it strange that Grimesby Roylott was the name of that dreadful man from Helen Stoner's peculiar case[1]?" I looked at him with a thin smile.

"My _dear_ Watson, after two hundred years, even I must concede that it was simply a strange coincidence. _Our _Doctor Roylott had no biological children; therefore this modern day snake could have no immediate ancestry." I held out a hand on impulse to help Lestrade from the cruiser, and to my infinite surprise she grabbed it with both of hers and all but fell out. I held tight to her shoulders, and Watson came forward immediately.

He glanced over her with the all-seeing doctor's gaze that even I could not compare to. "Feeling a bit dizzy?" I moved when he beckoned me to, just in time to avoid whatever was left of Lestrade's lunch as it hit the ground. "There we are, my dear. Better out than in, as they say."

"_They_'re full of sh—"

"Inspector! Er… you all right there?" I tried to hide behind Watson when Hopkins rounded the corner of the cruiser, but not in time, I fear, for he gave what could only be described as a squeal of delight at the sight of me. "Mister Holmes! Did you dye your hair?! Wow! Oh, are you on a case? Who's _this_?" How that lad ever came to be in the Yard was beyond me. I sighed, holding Watson still in a vice grip in case he decided to flee (not likely, but I was not tolerating Hopkins alone).

"Hello Hopkins. No, Hopkins. _Do_ contain your enthusiasm to below two hundred decibels, Hopkins. No again, Hopkins. This is Doc—ah. A friend." Good Heavens, I couldn't forsake my closest friend to this torture. Watson glanced at me in puzzlement, and then stepped forward with a hand extended. "Good afternoon, sir! I am Doctor John Wa—agh!"

I hoped he would forgive my manhandling, but I couldn't let him do it to himself. I tightened my grip on his collar and smiled winningly at Hopkins, who looked as though he might melt into a puddle of utter joy. Usually I spared only the most unpleasant glares for the overeager constable, particularly when he took liberties, such as holding open doors and _looking_ at me. I didn't want to think about the peculiar looks that lad gave me; they made me squirm. Indeed, a difficult thing to accomplish.

"Sorry, Hopkins! Gotta run!" Lestrade announced, snickering as she overcame her illness.

"Indeed, good afternoon Hopkins. Come along, Watson!" I pulled the good doctor behind me, still spluttering from the sudden attack.

"Wai-wait! _John Watson_?!"

We were already through the first set of doors, which had the pleasant effect of distracting Watson when he could very well have been irritated at my jostling. Instead, he was looking around with a wide-eyed expression I could recall very well, for I had sported it myself when first I had visited New Scotland Yard. "You are about to meet Chief Inspector Grayson, Watson. He will most likely be extremely rude; don't take it personally." I said quickly as we walked, seeking out the door we were in need of. "And _that_ was young constable Hopkins. Overeager to a fault."

"He's not actually that overeager most of the time." I frowned at Lestrade, whose sharkish grin made me uneasy. "Holmes won't listen to me, but Hopkins just happens to have a _lit-tle_ bit of an infatuation with the world's _greatest_ detective." Not this again. I covered my eyes with one hand and sighed loudly.

"Lestrade, he does _not_."

"Remember that time when he held open the door for you?"

"_His hand slipped_!" I exclaimed, only just refraining from plugging my ears to avoid the unwanted topic of conversation. "I am _certain_ his hand just slipped. Really, Inspector, you are making a mountain out of a molehill."

"_Sure_, Holmes." She continued to smile, though Watson now appeared so utterly disturbed that I wondered if he would be able sleep easy. "We _all _know his hand just _happened_ to slip at the perfect time to—"

"Here we are, Watson! Chief Inspector Grayson's humble abode. If you would like to continue, Lestrade?" I shot her an utterly unamused glance, but she only stuck out her tongue in reply and pressed the intercom button, though before she had even removed her finger the door opened.

"Well, come in then!"

Ah, good. The chief inspector was 'on the ball', according to new age slang. That meant less explaining and such, which meant we could get out faster with less chance of meeting Hopkins again. "Chief Inspector Grayson. Good afternoon."

"Been experimenting with 'air dye, 'ave we?" I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his tone, instead smiling in such a way that it was practically insulting.

"I fear it's perfectly natural, sir. If I may be so bold as to turn your attention to my good friend and colleague, Doctor Watson?" I waved him forward, and he extended a hand with that smile I had come to appreciate in our old days together.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Chief Inspector. This building is spectacular."

I glanced at Lestrade and we exchanged a smirk. Grayson was forever susceptible to flattery, and it applied in this case as well, for he shook Watson's hand immediately and without grousing. "'Bout time they started bringin' back the sensible ones, if you ask me. I've 'ad it up to 'ere with expired detectives runnin' 'round like they own the bleedin' place." I could not resist the slightest sneer at that, though I knew the man was much like the _original_ Lestrade in that he said such things, yet would enter a state of bloody panic should I ever conveniently stop taking his difficult and convoluted cases.

Watson, ever the diplomat, continued to smile as he released Grayson's hand. "I'm glad you think so, though I'm pleased to be working with Mr. Holmes again. Inspector Lestrade, as well."

"Speakin' o' you, Lestrade, any word on Moriarty recently?"

"None at all, Chief. Besides a few contacts in—"

As they spoke, Watson sidled closer to me and I bent my head just slightly when he made an indication for me to lend an ear. "Is he… always so…"

"Grayson is much like an old hound, Watson, to use our own terms of old. His attention is not held for long by pleasantries." I murmured back, watching the pair before us. "He may bungle up many of my cases, but I respect the man for his tenacity and persistence."

"Some things don't change, do they?" Watson sighed, hands in his pockets. "Yarders are as ever."

"Indeed." I chuckled, feeling a blooming spire of delight erupt through my chest as I realized again that Watson truly was but a hair's breadth away. "He may not outsmart his quarry, but he often runs them to exhaustion and catches them that way."

"And you act as the hunter, I suppose. Guiding the pack and shooting the fox as it flees." He commented softly, and, dare I say, admiringly.

I shook my head, laying a hand on his shoulder in a strangely affectionate act I would never have employed in our time, but which had become quite common in my need to constantly assure myself of his existence. "I fear, Watson, my new fox has thus eluded every trap I have set." I admitted, thinking darkly of Moriarty's smugly grinning face.

Watson smiled menacingly in such a way I have scarcely seen. "I wouldn't say that shall be the case for long." He said furtively.

I looked at him with raised eyebrows, "Indeed, Watson. I quite forgot that you're an adept hunter yourself. Our fox will be rather surprised when you join the hunt, I imagine." I could not help but laugh then, drawing the attention of Lestrade and Grayson as I attempted to reign my mirth in, though when Watson started chuckling along I could only laugh harder, thinking all too clearly of the possible expressions upon Moriarty's face when we sprung our trap.

"I take it back." I heard Grayson mutter. "They're both bloomin' insane." He glanced at Lestrade, just in time to see _her _starting to laugh as well, though I hardly knew why she would be finding any amusement at all in the situation. "Good God, it's _spreadin'_." The chief inspector threw up his hands. "An' 'ere I'm s'posed t' be givin' you back yer privileges 'cause you're _better_!"

I took a deep breath and steadied myself on the desk displaying a map of New London. "No need to worry, Chief Inspector. We are all quite under control. As for Moriarty, I know very well where he will be tomorrow night, if that is any consolation."

"'Ow in blazes d'you know _that_?" Grayson exclaimed, and I waved a hand in the air to exemplify the simplicity of his inquiry.

"My _dear_ Chief Inspector. I have expected this visit for some time. He believes me to be utterly alone and ripe for the picking, with er… the _other_ Watson away. No one in New London knows of _this_ Watson and his return to life." I extended my cane and gestured at Baker Street on the hologram. "I imagine he has waited for the opportune night—lately the weather has leaned towards exceptionally clear conditions; not the best for breaking and entering. Tomorrow evening shall be the first in weeks that will be suitable for his purposes, and therefore that is when I anticipate his strike."

"You're _mad_, 'Olmes. You think 'e's gonna go up there alone?" Grayson scoffed and I admit my eyes narrowed very slightly. "Fat chance o' that. 'E'll 'ave you both strung up by yer ankles."

Watson stepped forward to stand by me, politely clearing his throat. "If I may, Moriarty cannot anticipate what he doesn't know, Chief Inspector. We'll have the jump on him." I glanced sidelong at him and smiled. It _was _nice to have my Boswell back and ready for action. "We shall keep Inspector Lestrade on call, certainly, so the Yard would only be a transmission away. Right, Holmes?"

"Correct as always, Watson. What _have _I done without you?"

"Got into less trouble, for sure." Grayson snarled. "I'm still not convinced. Yer two 'as-been nineteenth century cast-off's. Why should I think you don' need backup like the rest of us, eh?"

"Why, Chief Inspector I thought it was obvious!" I said, more cheekily than I normally would. "We _are_ Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson!"

There was a tense moment before Grayson fell into his seat with an oath, holding his forehead and muttering about 'Victorian quacks'. What worried me more was the expression I had seen flit across Lestrade's face. Had I not known better, I should have thought she looked wounded.

* * *

[1]The Speckled Band: A canonical story used for the basis of the SH22 episode 'Scales of Justice'. Grimesby Roylott (in the original story) is responsible for the death of one of his stepdaughter and plans to kill the other using the same method; a venomous snake from India. He also tails his step daughter to Holmes's flat and threatens him should he continue investigating by bending an iron poker with his bare hands. After he leaves, Holmes _un_bends the poker and comments that "I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own."


	11. Blizzard

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Late, I know, though I'm going to be less speedy on the updates in the future, given that I've finally caught up with my muse, which has slowed down to normal speeds. On a more chapter-related note, I bring you Moriarty as a peace-offering, and a hint at the future plot! See if you can find it! Due to the switching between scenes and perspectives in the chapter, I decided to break habit by making it third person omniscient, and I'm unsure if I'll be using it frequently in later chapters.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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**_Chapter Eleven: Blizzard_**

"Back door is secure, Holmes, as are all the windows."

"Very good, Watson. Come, do sit down with me while we wait for the signal."

Watson climbed the seventeen steps and sat abreast to Holmes at the top. His hair had been ruffled in the preceding last-minute rush, and it was a testament to the new era that he didn't feel compelled to fix it into a more appropriate style. In fact, he and Holmes looked very similar as they sat, watching the front door doggedly. "You think he's coming through the front way?" Watson chanced to ask, and Holmes let out a hiss of impatience.

"I _know _he will, Watson. I know as geese know to fly south as the ground freezes. Moriarty is not a man to sneak about his enemy's territory." He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on their tips, looking down upon the doorway with lidded eyes. "I know." He repeated lazily.

The doctor nodded quietly. "He's a clone, correct? A duplicate of the Moriarty we knew?"

"Yes, Watson. He is."

"Is he anything like the original?"

Holmes surveyed his friend with a closed expression and looked back at the door, clearly thinking hard as his brows knit together. His lips pursed and he ran a hand through his ever-darkening hair. "He is, and yet he is not. He is perhaps even more clever and devious as his predecessor, but he lacks tremendously in that gift of subtlety the original Professor was endowed with. You remember, Watson, how many years I toiled to unravel the threads of Moriarty's criminal empire? How carefully I had to snip the lines away to reveal that great spider in the center of it all?" With his expression growing blacker as he spoke, Holmes clenched a fist.

"Rest assured, Watson, this man is not so sly as our old fox. He knows fewer tricks, but his fangs and claws are infinitely sharper. There is truly no level to which he will not stoop, and he has the advantage of us in this age."

"Advantage, Holmes?" Watson looked up in alarm.

Holmes nodded gravely. "Indeed, advantage. You might remember the professor of old was on in his years. He was of weak body, even if his mind was as sharp as a freshly whetted knife. He was forced to remain in the shadows, entrusting agents to his most difficult tasks. Our new Moriarty is not so inhibited. He is youthful—older than our bodies, perhaps, but still in his prime. He is able to do his own dirty work now, and he does it with great enthusiasm." He looked at his good friend, though Watson had clearly missed his point in saying as much, for he shook his head.

"But Holmes, I don't understand. Is that not a_ good_ thing? If the man does his own work, he's that much easier to catch in the act!"

"No, Watson! That is _not_ the case! Good heavens, man, think! It makes him that much _harder_ to ensnare, for he's more dangerous now than he ever was before! I shall no doubt drag you and Lestrade into a dozen life-or-death conflicts with the blasted man before I ever come close to catching him!" Holmes cried impassionedly, throwing up his hands in emotion. "How am I to seize him if I can scarcely think for worry? Yet I can't go alone, since he is as skilled in combat as I ever have been, if with a rash temper that has a history of working against him."

Watson set a hand on Holmes's shoulder in a tight grip. "Holmes, you need never worry for me. If I could survive your company for so long as I did, I am certain I can handle myself with this new villain. He shall never compare to the evils of his predecessor." A haunted look came over the doctor, and he glanced away. The rush of the Reichenbach Falls[1] was almost palpable as they sat silently on the step, until the wrist communicator they held between them lit up with a beep.

"Holmes, we just saw one of Moriarty's hover-lorries heading in your direction. I'd bet any money it's them." She looked haggard, and Holmes recalled it was past one in the morning by now. "You've got about ninety seconds, I'd say."

"I see." Watson leapt to his feet and descended the steps, tucking himself into the stairwell. "Watson, you remember how to use the ionizer?"

"Of course Holmes. Ten shots before it must recharge, correct? I doubt I shall need all of them."

"Good man, Doctor. I'll turn down the lights to make it appear as though I am enjoying a quiet fireside read before bed. Remember, Moriarty shall undoubtedly enter the sitting room alone. That is when you must spring and incapacitate his cohorts." Holmes ducked into the sitting room and the lights died until only the firelight was available. "Are you ready, Watson? I believe they are arriving as we speak."

"Of course, Holmes. Do get in position."

"Stay safe, old friend."

"You too."

Minutes passed in tense silence as Watson waited beneath the stairs. He fingered the trigger of the ionizer often, tracing the cool metallic material it was encased in. He had set the muzzle to its thinnest setting, which released a bullet-sized stream of light that he felt more comfortable using. He only hoped he was still the good shot he had been in the past. Holmes's well being might rely heavily on it.

The front door swung open and interrupted Watson's thoughts. He settled against the shadow-cloaked wall, using it to blend into the scenery while still observing the group of men that had just entered as silent as specters. Four dark-clothed individuals besides the one he knew to be Moriarty.

Clearly the Professor—if he could still be called such—didn't expect a fight. The advantage was theirs then. Watson held the ionizer tightly in his grasp and slipped silently out of the stairwell as the intruders began to ascend, taking each step with maddening slowness until with relief he saw Moriarty touch a hand to the doorknob leading to the sitting room. As Holmes had anticipated, he held up one hand to keep his subordinates back and without another word pulled open the door and vanished therein.

Watson, bringing his wits about him for the first time in two hundred years, lunged forward and began to fire with his old precision.

* * *

"Moriarty. I do wish I could call this a surprise, but I'm afraid you've caught me totally prepared, _as always_." Holmes smiled as derisively as he could, sitting by the fire in his chair while Moriarty glanced around. "Were you expecting me to be stunned? _Really_, you must get up earlier in the morning to achieve that end."

Though his tone had remained light and teasing, there was an atmosphere about the room similar to a pair of tigers encircling each other, waiting for the first sign of a fault in the other's defense. Moriarty took a moment to stretch, and propped a hand on his hip with an unimpressed expression. "Your bluff isn't working, Holmes. You've been removed from the Yard as a consultant and your robot friend is in for repairs. I know you're alone here, so if we could _please_ skip the droll denials." He sauntered forward, and a smile spread over his lips when Holmes did, indeed, tense at the lessened distance.

Taking control of the confrontation, Moriarty sidled further still into the room until he was almost toe-and-toe with the seated detective. "The latest gossip amongst the denizens of the _underworld_ is that Sherlock Holmes has lost his touch." He lamented, and Holmes clenched his teeth, glowering up but still refusing to stand. "They say you've gone 'round the _proverbial_ bend, though of course I defended your honor to the teeth. Really, Holmes, you _must_ think of your rivals before you do this sort of thing. It makes us both look bad."

"I wonder, Moriarty, why you couldn't just write this in a letter and mail it? It certainly would have saved some time." Holmes cut in boldly. "I can't imagine the cloning process robbed you of the ability to spell as _well_ as the ability to act in any way subtler than a raging elephant." He crossed his legs and sighed morosely. "_Do_ go away. I'll partake in your little games on some other occasion. I'm _sure_ New Scotland Yard will be willing to play in the meantime." He rolled his eyes, though he caught the bunching muscles in Moriarty's arm. Ah. Three… two… "In fact—guh!" Holmes was unsurprised, but still mildly peeved to be picked up by the front of his shirt and hauled closer to Moriarty's face. The lack of personal space tried him more than the physical danger.

"I said to drop your bluff, Holmes. It's tiring on me. I have every intention of having my just dessert this evening, and you _will_ make that possible."

"Let me go, Moriarty."

"Pray, why?"

"It would be in your best interests. I would hate to have to hurt you, you know."

Moriarty laughed aloud then, and dropped Holmes in time to catch the detective's fist before it left him with a concussion. They traded blows for several moments, until Holmes used the force from a hook to his cheek to fall across the room and draw his cane, extending it and lunging forward anew. Unsurprisingly, Moriarty caught it with his own bludgeon and the dance continued in a blur of heavy strikes. 

Holmes staggered back at last, winded and panting. "I suppose you conveniently missed the etiquette lesson on attacking kings in their own castles?" He asked sharply, dodging a lunge and countering with a heavy handed blow of his own that was easily diverted to the floor.

"Yes, I never did approve of that notion." Moriarty mused, parrying another strike from his rival and smiling mirthlessly. "After all, why not attack while the enemy is most relaxed? Isn't that right, my _dear _Holmes?" He gave a barking laugh and caught the detective with a sharp strike to his ribs, which sent Holmes rolling into the wall with a groan. Though the theatrical part of Moriarty rebuked, and would have liked nothing more than to see his nemesis suffer more than a few cracked ribs before the end of their time together, he didn't trust that Yarder, Lestrade, to keep her nose clean and out of his business here. It was best to end it without any more speeches or talking. He raised the bludgeon high, as Holmes still blinked away stars blearily. This was the end…

"_Stop_!"

Watson burst through the door, sporting a bloodied lip and the makings for a fantastic black eye, and in one fluid motion he ionized the wretch and ran to Holmes, dropping onto his knees with a grimace. "I'm terribly sorry, Holmes. A few of the blackguards weren't so easy to hit, so I took care of them the old-fashioned way. I have them all tied up and stunned in the kitchen." He moved to help Holmes up, but his hands were pushed away.

"Watson… you are an infallible man to have at hand at times like this. Though I would much prefer if you cuffed Moriarty and woke him up—a little jolt from the stunner will do that well enough. You simply _must_ introduce yourself. I've been dying to see his expression!" Holmes stood up, groaning painfully as he made his way to his chair, falling into it weakly. "Put him on the settee, Watson— there's a chap. We may be enemies, but we are still gentlemen." Watson set up the criminal, and then followed Holmes's instructions to the tee, handcuffing the villain and then reviving him with a shock from the stunner.

"What in _blazes_…" Moriarty sat up with a perturbed expression, which sank into despondency at the sight of Holmes, quite all right and packing tobacco into his pipe. "How… this time… I was _certain_ you were alone, Holmes! I was sure of it! The robot was gone, as was that damned Scotland Yard zealot!"

"That would be Inspector Lestrade to you, Moriarty. Remember your place." Holmes growled, though it lost some effect when he winced. "I must commend you on that last blow. I believe you may have broken several ribs."

"Holmes, you _must_ let me check them." Watson moved into the dim light of the fire, attracting Moriarty's attention for the first time yet.

He raised an eyebrow. "A new friend I see, Holmes;how convenient for you."

Holmes let out a harsh laugh, and gasped in pain again. "A _new_friend! Oh hardly, hardly Moriarty. In fact, this man is my oldest friend. He's the oldest man alive, for that matter—my apologies," He said hastily when Watson scowled. "Surely, Moriarty, you can put that superb mind of yours to proper use for once in telling me the name of this gentleman?"

It seemed the villain took Holmes's challenge to heart, for he scowled in deep thought, reminding Watson at last of the professor of old. He witnessedMoriarty's head begin to oscillate in such a reptilian manner that the two men on the side of justice in the room scarcely held back their shudders. "Doctor John Watson, I see." Moriarty said at last with a decided nod. "It is a privilege indeed to meet you. I would shake your hand, but…" He shrugged instead.

Watson wasn't taken aback, given what he had known of the Moriarty of old. The felon was a gentleman, even if he happened to turn to evil. He had the good grace to allow Holmes to write a note of explanation before their final confrontation, even, and he _did_ offer to abandon his hunt for Holmes's life if only the detective would leave his affairs to peace. In all frankness, Watson would have been much more perturbed if this new Moriarty had been anything _but _a gentleman when in a sticky situation. It was the namesake's last resort in most cases. "Of course. I must say, I was alarmed when I was told about _you_." Watson replied at last.

"I imagine you are another pet project of the zealot?"

"Lestrade." Holmes growled from nearby.

"Oh, really Holmes. She is a zealot if ever I have met one." Moriarty replied condescendingly. "An aficionada of justice."

"Moriarty, _you_ are an _insufferable_ bore, and you are crowding my sitting room!" Holmes ground out.

"What on Earth does_ that_ have to do with Lestrade?" The combined voices of Moriarty and Watson made Holmes furrow his brow angrily, even as his friend turned red.

"Turncoat." He muttered.

Watson blanched. "Oh, Holmes, really now!" 

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "You could join the criminal realm, Doctor. We always have need for men of your talents." His sharkish grin made Watson hastily move to stand next to Holmes's chair.

"Don't throw yourself at my colleagues, Moriarty, you cretin!" Holmes snarled, though his communicator cut the tension with its condescending beep.

"Holmes?"

"Speak of the zealot and she shall preach."

"In the words of the very woman, '_shut up'_!" Holmes looked back at the tiny screen. "Hello Inspector, how are you?" His voice was so falsely cheery that Watson and Moriarty shared a tremendous grimace, and Lestrade made a noise of disgust.

"What's going on there? Did you get them?" Her voice sounded concerned.

"Yes, look." Holmes turned the screen on Moriarty, who bowed his head in greeting. "It went according to plan. Watson even got to partake in fisticuffs for the first time in two centuries! He did quite well, being the oldest man alive."

"_Holmes!_"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I feel like I should be _really _creeped out right now. It sounds like you're having a garden party, not holding onto one of the most notorious criminals in the world."

"Really, Inspector, you flatter me." Moriarty purred from the settee, while Watson picked up the kettle they let boil over the fireplace to pour himself a cup of tea.

"Can it, Moriarty." Lestrade's voice resonated through the room and the criminal sighed in mock defeat, appearing for all intensive purposes to be thoroughly enjoying himself. "A squad hovercar'll be there in a few seconds to pick up all the scum." Her face flickered out, and Holmes sighed, grimacing as his torso throbbed.

"Tea?" Watson proposed, glancing about the room. Holmes merely shook his head, and Moriarty made a point to clang his handcuffs together. "Ah. I see." The doctor returned to nursing his own cup.

"How long will you allow yourself to stay in custody this time?" Holmes asked abruptly, casting a glare at Moriarty, who appeared genuinely thoughtful. "I imagine you brought only low level associates with you?"

"Oh, of course, of course. I'm not an _utter_ fool, though you did play me like one, Holmes. I have my plan routed and ready, and I promise you shall both see me soon enough, though perhaps not where you would expect." He smirked menacingly, though after years of receiving looks of that make, Holmes and Watson merely exchanged a bored glance. "And that, I believe, would be my chauffeur, gentlemen."

On cue the door opened and two constables entered, looking at the master criminal in their midst nervously. "Mister Holmes… um…" The younger of them looked at Watson curiously.

"Doctor John Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you both."

"Oh yeah, we heard about that. It's great seeing you, Doctor. Sorry you had to hold onto the trash so long, Mister Holmes. Traffic's mad out there for some reason." 

Holmes glowered at Moriarty, though Watson clearly couldn't see any connection. Instead he watched at the window as the police pulled away, taking with them one of the most nerve-wracking men he had ever met. But that was a business for a later date. In the meantime, Watson turned to Holmes in determination. The detective tried to scoot further away in his armchair, but Watson had his arm in a steel grip within an instant. "I am wrapping your ribs, Holmes, until a modern age doctor can see you." It took only a few moments to rid Holmes of his clothes above the waist, and several more to fetch the needed supplies.

The taller man grimaced as his friend's cold fingers traced his ribs for damage and eventually began to apply bandages liberally. "You really don't change, Watson." He said softly.

"Nor do you, Holmes. Nor do you."

* * *

**[1]** Final Problem: The canonical story in which Moriarty and Holmes have their final confrontation. I can only assume Watson would find the original Professor infinitely more evil than his clone, being that in the canon Watson spends three years under the impression that Moriarty had murdered Holmes. Aside from that, he was also responsible for the detective fleeing across Europe, and later indirectly the cause of the 'great hiatus'. So… to put it simply, Clone!Moriarty's got _nothing_ on the original.


	12. Showers

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Watson angst and the first smallish inkling of Holmes/Lestrade. Not to mention our dear detective accidentally manages to get himself in a bit of drug-related trouble. Tsk tsk, Holmes... read the directions! Due to apartment hunting/job hunting, as well as the fact that only one chapter after this one is pre-written, things might start going a bit slower. But no fear! I'll finish the beasty! Thanks again to ElizabethLestrade for helping out.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.

* * *

**

**_Chapter Twelve: Showers_**

**Watson**

"Okay, let's start at the beginning again."

"Lestrade, we've been over this a dozen times already. Would you kindly leave us in peace?"

"Can it, Holmes. You can't move until your ribs are fixed anyway, so we might as well review the facts."

I, for one, felt no small amount of confusion as Holmes grumbled and leaned back on the settee. The sun was just beginning to crop up on the horizon, and it was a painful reminder of the decided lack of sleep we were all suffering from. Following my introduction to Moriarty's unsettling clone, the house had been host to various authorities. New-age paramedics had wrapped Holmes's torso in the most peculiar bandage _I_ had ever seen, with the assurance that it would heal his broken bones within the next six hours. It was fascinating to see how medicine had advanced, though I hadn't had much time to observe the material before our good friend the Inspector burst in without warning.

In between gasps for air, she had explained that Moriarty had escaped the cruiser within five minutes of leaving our company. It appeared that several crucial throughways in the grand city had been mysteriously closed, channeling a thick stream of traffic above Baker Street. I could only suppose that he had used the confusion to escape into a close-passing vehicle. Holmes had not shown much alarm, though he did snarl vehemently that he should have accompanied the police personally rather than trusting them on their own. Lestrade displayed her own brand of concern, as I had come to recognize it as, by asking if Holmes was going to make a habit out of 'snapping half a dozen ribs every time Moriarty visits'.

They descended into a brief verbal scuffle over the definition of 'snapping', and I must confess I found myself thoroughly amused by the conversation. It was vaguely reminiscent of Holmes's strange relationship with his elder brother Mycroft in that there was a genuine sense of affection beneath the scathing comments and complaints. I, for one, had never shared his enjoyment of arguing for the sake of it. Though I was not abject to our occasional friendly tiffs, it would drive me mad to banter with him as frequently as he did with Lestrade. Only by the occasional upturned lips could I even discern if they were serious or not.

It made me wonder on the nature of their relationship. During our time together in times gone by, Holmes had never displayed any inkling of _lasting_ interest in women. Oh, he was not immune to the plagues of a pretty face, nor exempt from fleeting moments of intrigue; for the sake of cases he had played the fair sex like his treasured violin, often with a certain cruelty I could not help but disdain. There were times when I might have thought him a deviant but for his equal, if even lower opinion of the _male _populace.

The topic of conversation had never ended well for me. It was quickly branded as an unwelcome subject, and one Holmes was quick to spurn with callous remarks. For the most part I was content to leave it be, convinced that my friend truly was about as interested in love and the 'frivolities' of human nature as Babbage's calculating machine[1]. He chose his method of living and I chose mine in marrying my sweet Mary, for however short a time our happiness lasted.

I pondered, listening to Holmes and Lestrade squabble, if a new century and a new chance at life had presented opportunities that my friend had scorned his first time round. I had occasionally thought that his disinterest in women of our own era stemmed from his boredom with the typical manner of them; he had felt no end of disgust at the faint-hearted ways of Victorian ladies. Perhaps his interests were better suited for a new century in that regard, where women were undoubtedly just as headstrong and stubborn in their ways as any hotblooded male could be. Indeed, I could see he respected Inspector Lestrade for her sharpness of wit, as well as her frustratingly bullheaded behavior. She was the sublime catalyst that his caustic personality needed.

I wondered, perhaps a trifle bitterly, where that left _me_.

It was not my place to be resentful, of course. I was happy—delighted, even—that my good friend might have found someone to whom he was so perfectly in sync with. Yet, if they were already content with the present situation, and certainly if they had found a _robot_ that could satisfactorily replace me (I felt a wave of resentment then, I am ashamed to admit) I was brought to wonder why in Heaven's good name I was even _alive_. I have never been the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I was beginning to feel as though this was a gift horse not even meant for myself at all. I had been revived to a life I knew nothing about for the sake of Sherlock Holmes, and no one had wondered if I would wish it upon myself.

In an instant his fury upon that first night made such perfect sense that I wished to go back in time to join him in his ranting. I was lost in an ocean of righteous anger as I realized in one fell moment that I had been dropped into a time where I had no social standing, no medical training worth mentioning, no means of occupation, and furthermore no clue on how to operate daily without assistance! It inspired a dull ache in my chest that I couldn't quite place; it felt similar to the pain I had felt when I'd thought Holmes dead, or when Mary had succumbed to influenza.

I was quite certain I now knew what it was like to be in the middle of the ocean without a lifering.

"—son? Watson!"

My eyes fluttered open when at last I registered the mildly panicked tone of Holmes as he sat up with a grimace. "I-…" I fell silent, unsure of what I felt. "My apologies. I'm afraid I was lost in thought."

His eyes, not the slate gray I remembered, but only several shades off, took on the sharp appearance I knew to mean he was unsatisfied by an answer. "Of course," As quickly as the expression had appeared, it vanished as he waved a hand. "You hardly missed anything of merit. Only another retelling of the night's events." I nodded, thought my thoughts remained elsewhere. "Are you all right, Watson?" He asked worriedly.

"Yes." I said flatly, making a show of rubbing my eyes. "Just tired, I believe."

Young Lestrade chose that moment to burst into the conversation, and it was only with great effort that I refrained shooting her an annoyed glance. "What's he got planned, though? Moriarty, I mean." She ran a hand through her hair irritably. "He's already tried everything a codebreaker can do, anyway."

Holmes held up a hand wearily, and I noticed for the first time that he looked just as exhausted as I felt. The presence of pain upon his features only cemented my belief that he was tired; had he been as alert as usual, he would have ruled in such expressions. "Whatever Moriarty has planned will surely sit until mor—" He looked outside the window, where dawn's light was peeking onto the street. "Until _later_." He finished dryly. "In the meantime I think sleep should be our main priority."

Lestrade groaned animatedly. "Driving home in morning traffic's not gonna be fun. I _hate_ the idiots that fly around at this time."

"Given that you would only be back in several hours' time anyway, you might as well make use of my bed, as I have been forbidden from leaving the settee until I've healed." Holmes volunteered, and the rarity of his offer made both me and the Inspector stare in shock. "Oh, _do_ close your mouths. I only offer out of common courtesy." Holmes muttered, folding his arms with a wince.

"Er… okay. I guess." Lestrade and I stood in tandem, I turning towards the stairs and she towards the hallway. Before I left the room I glanced back in time to see a peculiar, but not unfamiliar expression upon Holmes' face. I sighed as I ascended the staircase, the heavy feeling in my chest only increasing. To be restored to life only to lose one's solitary purpose in said existence was, if nothing else, extraordinarily difficult.

* * *

**Lestrade**

I think I might have mentioned before how much I dislike sleeping anywhere besides my own bed. I like my own pillow, my own blankets and my own zedding mattress.

By the time I had laid in Holmes's bed (now _that_ was a weird thought) for five minutes, I decided his pillow was too hard, the blankets felt funny, his mattress had _one_ infuriating lump right where I wanted to lie down, and it smelled absolutely _wonderful_. Not that I noticed, but the whole thing had _Sherlock Holmes_ written all over it, right down to that irritating bump that actually wasn't so bad if you laid down the right way. I wasn't exactly comfortable, but eventually I fell asleep.

Typically I don't remember my dreams, but when I do they're something totally bizarre, like dancing monkeys or being chased by giant teddy bears. I hardly ever dream _about_ someone, which only made the one I had that much odder.

It started when I heard (or maybe felt) the mattress move. Being in the Yard means having fast reflexes and the 'hit first, ask questions later' mentality, so I sat up and threw a fist out.

"_Ow_!" I was surprised by the familiar tone, and through the semi-darkness I could see the outline of him falling back, holding his head gingerly. "Really, Lestrade. That _hurt_." His voice was off; I could tell that much by the slight, but noticeable slur.

"What the _zed_, Holmes. How was I supposed to know it was you?" I knew my cheeks were doing that _thing_, where they started to heat up and change color. Traitors. "What're _you_ even doing here? Go away, I'm trying to sleep."

He frowned, though it looked a lot more like a pout, and shook his head exasperatedly. "It's _my_ bed. Who else could it possibly be? And have you ever attempted to sleep on that infernal settee?" He crept a bit closer, and to my savage delight he looked hesitant—a rare expression for _him_.

"You _could_ have been Moriarty." I justified.

"What on Earth would _Moriarty _be doing in my bed?"

"And what happened to 'one can train one's body to sleep in the most unusual places'?"

"I lied."

I heard the slur again and furrowed my brows. "Holmes, what did you do?" I asked tentatively. It wasn't like he had any alcohol in Baker Street to begin with; after a memorable incident involving those _kids_ he had officially banned it from the premises. But if not _that_, I didn't know what would make him so… weird.

He shrugged, and seemed to think about it. "Painkillers." He said at last. "My ribs were hurting so I took them."

"How many?" The paramedics had left three with a strict warning to only take one at a time. They were the sort of things that could knock out an elephant under the right circumstances.

He 'hummed' thoughtfully. "Two… three? No, I should think two." He sighed loudly. "But I still couldn't sleep, so I decided to commandeer my quarters. I wasn't _going_ to wake you." He defended himself, holding up his hands.

So, I was dreaming. I knew that now, at least. The _real_ Holmes wasn't stupid enough to take twice the safe dosage of pain meds he had. I raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you should be feeling _anything_ right now, Holmes. _Least_ of all an uncomfortable couch." It was true—even if this _was_ a dream, he should have been knocked out wherever he happened to lie down after taking that much medication.

"Well, it _was _uncomfortable. So I came in here." He laid down then, and I yelped, maneuvering away and towards the edge of the bed.

"Okay, Holmes. You can't sleep _here_!" I exclaimed. "_I'm_ here!"

"You're doing it _again_."

"_What?_"

He pointed at his cheeks with a broad grin, and I flushed even more, rubbing them. "Look, seriously. If you're sleeping _here_, I'm going on the settee." Like hell I was staying in bed with a drugged Holmes, even if it was in my own head!

For a dream it was pretty realistic; when he looked up I could see how unfocused his eyes were. They slid left and right, though I didn't think he was actually _seeing_ much, it looked more like he was just enjoying the movement. "Why do you continuously do that?" He asked abruptly, sounding almost like himself. "I have been trying to deduce it, but…" He shrugged.

"What, blush?" I asked, and wonder of wonders it happened again. "I-I dunno. Look, just go to sleep. You're completely zed-headed right now."

"I'm _what_?"

"You're zonked. Inebriated. _Drugged out of your zedding mind_." I hissed, making to stand up, though when an arm grabbed me around my midriff and hauled me back down I admit I squeaked in shock. "_Holmes!_" I yelped. "What in the name of—"

He looked at me with pursed lips, and his eyes were heavily lidded. "You talk too much." He said blandly. "I said you could sleep here, so you should. It is, after all, a large enough bed."

"That's not the point."

"Well, what _is_ the point?" He growled, and then sighed. "I hardly see what your fuss is, Lestrade. Unless you're _nervous_." His lips curled into an impish grin, and I huffed indignantly.

"I am _not_ nervous.' I argued, falling back with a thump and folding my arms. "Look. Happy now, _Sherlock_?"

"Very much so, _Beth_." Holmes retorted plainly, and his grin grew to my surprise. "You're still red." He prodded one of my cheeks and I shifted away before my stomach did another weird pitch over his arm still being around me.

"Good_night_." I said testily.

My gut, stupid turncoat that it was, did the mother of all lurches when I felt a pair of pliant lips land inelegantly on my cheek, and I felt like curling up when I felt a disgustingly happy bubble well up in my chest. "G'night…" A second later his breathing deepened and I laid my head on the pillow next to his. Another moment of thought passed before I hastily dove back under the covers, putting at least _something_ between us. As I started to fade back to sleep, I wished vehemently for a _regular_ dream about talking dogs or something.

* * *

There were three things wrong with how I woke up: First of all, _something_ was pinning me down.

Secondly, I could feel the wind blowing right on my ear and it made me shiver.

Lastly, the first _something_ was an arm and the second _something_ was Sherlock Holmes rudely breathing into my ear canal.

_It wasn't a zedding dream_.

"Oh _hell_." I groaned and wriggled, though his grip on me tightened and I felt yet another completely maddening thrill that made my back tingle uncomfortably. I wondered if I should wake him up—in fact, I wondered if he would even remember what had happened. I doubted that much; in his right mind, Holmes thought it was improper to sit too _close_ to a girl, let alone crawl into bed with one and pin her down.

Oh God, that sounded _wrong_.

"Holmes!" I hissed, wriggling again. "Holmes, wake up!" He snuffled a bit and promptly buried his face in my neck to avoid doing just that. _Great_. "_Holmes!_"

It happened in less than a second, but I would treasure it for a lifetime. His eyes opened blearily, took in my entirely-too-close face, and promptly widened to the size of dinner plates. He then gave an inarticulate yelp, kneeled up on the bed, fell off the side with a thump and rolled over , voicing a bewildered groan. "What… why… _what_?"

I leaned over to look at him with a raised eyebrow. _Someone_ hadn't taken that very well, had he? "You started this." I pointed out sweetly, remembering my '_dream_' vividly enough to feel the need for revenge. "Do you even remember anything about this morning after you took those pain meds?"

He looked at me in horror, though after a moment his face cleared to a less panicked expression. Probably because he picked up on the fact that he'd been on top of the blankets while I was under them, and neither of us were in any 'state of undress', so to speak. "I… no." He said at last. "I last recall trying to fall asleep on the settee."

"Chyeah." I said dismissively. "Heard you had a bit of trouble with that, Holmes."

He turned a shade of red I'd never seen before, and covered his eyes with a hand. "Dare I ask what I did?" He probed awkwardly.

I debated telling him the whole story, but it didn't look like those old Victorian virtues would stand the shock, so I improvised. "Nothing, really. Honestly, you didn't even wake me up. You're sneaky even when you're drugged; that's impressive." Judging by that look, he wasn't convinced, but neither did he start questioning it. Ignorance was bliss, I suppose.

He ran a hand through his hair, and once again I was amused by the alarming directions it was pointing. Eventually Holmes stood up, stretching for good measure. "Good as new." He announced, pointing at the wrappings around his torso. _Obviously _trying to forget the situation. "If you would like you can help yourself to anything in the kitchen. In the meantime, I believe I'll get a shower." He traipsed out of the room, looking as self-assured as ever, which was enough to irk me after the _incident_ of the early morning.

A moment later he stuck his head back in, looking suddenly awkward. "I'm _terribly_ sorry, Inspector." He said abruptly before vanishing again.

I looked after him in silence, then couldn't help but grin as I stood up. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and for now I was happy to enjoy the swooping feeling in my gut without any repercussions. Besides, it wasn't like it meant anything.

* * *

**[1] Arthur Conan Doyle:** Doyle was quoted in saying to Joseph Bell (the man who inspired Sherlock Holmes) that "Holmes is as inhuman as Babbage's calculating machine and just about as likely to fall in love". Watson also states that Holmes is "an automaton, a calculating machine,"


	13. Weather Warning

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Robo!Watson's return. At last. Some of you may think he takes it a bit too well- but think about it... he's a law enforcement droid that, however much he may act human, is still programmed to have logical and calm reactions to stressful situations. Therefore it would be silly for him to go out of his mind in rage. Still! More Watson angst! Though he has some nicer chapters coming up, poor guy. BTW... I'm running out of weather patterns for chapter titles... xD. Thanks again to ElizabethLestrade for helping out.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

**

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**_Chapter Thirteen: Weather Warning_**

**Holmes**

What the devil had possessed me to take twice the _legal _(and safe) dosage of painkillers?

I brought a hand to my face, which I was scrutinizing in the bathroom mirror. I waited to see if my reflection might be able to provide a sought-after answer, but I only looked as worn and confused as I had two minutes ago. I ran my fingers over a considerable bruise that had darkened one of my cheekbones and pondered what Lestrade had said. If I hadn't woken her up, how did I come by a Beth-Lestrade's-fist shaped mark on my face, and _why _did I vaguely recollect having a completely nonsensical argument with her over the property rights of my bed?

On the other hand, _why _would she lie? I knew Lestrade well enough to be acquainted with her venomous temper. If I had done anything remotely unwelcome I would have woken up to find myself castrated. So at the very least (And a _very _least it was) I was saved from thoughts that some indiscretion had occurred, which certainly was, if nothing else, a relief. Yet it did not take away the fact that I had some slight remembrance of whatever _had _transpired.

I sighed and brushed my hair into a more suitable style, though it being wet made the task useless—it would only stick up again when it dried. I pulled on the deplorably wrinkled shirt I had grabbed haphazardly as I left the bedroom, refraining as well as I could from scowling at the untidy feel of it. To make matters all the more disorderly, I hadn't even grabbed a waistcoat, which left me looking only half dressed. Adding insult to injury, I felt deucedly tired, as well as strangely fuzzy; most likely a consequence of the medication.

Ten minutes awake and I already longed to go back to sleep (_alone_) until morning. I believe it was a new record.

"Hey, beauty queen, if you're done looking at yourself, I need to get a shower before my hair starts congealing."

I raised my eyebrows and pulled open the door, looking down at Lestrade, though she wasted no time in pushing past me into the bathroom. I opened my mouth to retort, but before I could formulate a response she closed the door in my face, successfully stubbing one of my unclothed toes. I could do little more than grumble in pain and hop away, glaring in such a manner that I hoped she could feel it through the wood.

Given the sudden hiss of the shower, I highly doubted that was the case and instead trekked back to the blissfully empty bedroom to retrieve socks and a waistcoat. I made a practiced point to ignore the fact that she had made the bed too neatly, and had decided to stack several books and lay them on my dresser. It took only a moment to scatter them back around the floor where they properly belonged, and it was a simple enough task to ruffle the bedclothes to their usual and appropriate appearance. 

I entered the kitchen to see Watson, forever endeavoring to immerse himself in the new century, scrawling upon a datapad that acted as his old journals might have. I sidled in as quietly as I could and made for the pot of coffee that seemed to be quite fresh on the countertop. "Writing new stories already, Watson?" I inquired as I took a long swallow. As always, the bitter liquid revived my mind to working order and I sat at the table with an expression I hoped spoke of nothing but interest, even as my mind dwelled on the strange scene that had unfolded earlier.

"Yes, though I can't imagine I'm doing it much justice." Watson groused in a tired tone. I perceived immediately that he had not slept when he had returned to his room, given his exhausted expression and wrinkled clothes. "I hope you weren't hurt when you fell off your bed?" He added, and I detected a note of amusement as well as some understandable indignity.

I hastened to defend myself, holding up my hands in justification. "It was _not _what it looked like, Watson. I was under the influence of drugs—not _cocaine_, man! _Do_ stop looking so scandalized!" He gave me a harried glance and returned to his scribbling, alarming me with his expression of disgruntlement. "I didn't even realize I was there until only minutes ago." I finished rather lamely.

"And Miss Lestrade didn't see the need to displace you?" He asked, his tone taking a strangely sharp edge.

I furrowed my brow. "From what I gathered I was proving… difficult." I looked at him thoughtfully, but he kept his head bowed and eliminated my chance of gathering his peculiar mood through his expression. "What _are _you writing?" I tried to catch a glimpse of the screen, but—always more cunning than he let on—Watson had cleverly discovered how to enable the privacy settings; unless I were looking directly at it, I would be able to discern nothing.

"I told you, Holmes, a story." My good friend said testily. "I would appreciate it if you would stop looking so affronted, old boy." I blinked at his admonishment and hastily made to clear my visage of such a sentiment. "Do you _honestly _expect me to think nothing of your strange involvement with her?" He asked suddenly.

"How can you possibly be writing a story? I haven't had a case." I fired back my own question, ignoring his.

"It's improper, you know, _whatever _century this may be."

"It's _improper _to lie to your good friend."

"_Lying_? How on Earth did you come to that conclusion?"

"The Watson I know would not be writing a simple story so shortly after such a monumental change."

"The Holmes _I _know would not be waking up in bed with random women!"

"It was an accident, Watson, I told you that. And I would appreciate it if you did not act as though she were some trollop off the street." 

"And _I_ am writing to clear my mind. You have no right to nose about in it!"

"_Nose about_?" I looked at him, aghast. "I asked you a _question_. If I were nosing about I would grab the deuced thing from your hands and read it, or trick you into leaving it unattended." I could not comprehend the abnormal change that had come over him in a matter of hours. He had seemed absentminded in the early morning, but I had thought that was only the extended period of wakefulness; it had admittedly never crossed my not-insubstantial mind that he was anything less than content with the night's affairs.

Watson bristled just slightly and crossed his arms, forgoing the datapad entirely. For the first time I caught a glimpse of his face, and the discontentment he displayed had a strange effect on me; I could feel my stomach drop in dismay, while my mind worked frantically to get to the bottom of this sudden mystery. "Watson, what—"

"Don't even _ask_ that foolish question." He ground out, and I wisely closed my mouth, knowing him well enough to suspect my answer would come in short order. "The longer I stay here, the more I feel out of place." He said simply, and I could respect his feelings from the bottom of my heart, having felt them myself. "I cannot change as you do, Holmes," His tone was pleading for my understanding, and I attempted to show just how much I _did_ appreciate his sentiment. "If I had died—_permanently—_in our time I would have been happy. It would be a grievous lie to say I find much contentment here."

Watson was unlike myself in many ways. He had traits, both positive and negative, that I sorely lacked. The ones I had always admired most were his adamant good will and patience; it was a hard task indeed to furrow under his skin and evoke any amount of serious feeling. I had fought with him many times during our acquaintance, but only rarely did it escalate to a case in which he lost his renowned easiness and descended into the chaotic and turbulent waters of the lesser emotions that we both avoided so desperately.

Yet now I could see such feeling written plainly upon his face, coercing his jaws into tense masses and his lips into a quivering line. I felt, dare I say, unnerved by the change that had been wrought, and my hand extended for his, though he snatched it away immediately. "What part do I play in this insanity?" He wondered aloud. "I have nothing, Holmes. No family, no trade, no lasting ability to make a difference!" My dear Watson… my heart went to him, small token though it was. "My time has come and passed. What I have now is a twisted mockery of what once was."

"Watson…"

"What is the purpose?"

"Watson."

"I'm a relic, by present terms!"

"_Watson!_" My raised voice spurred him into silence, and I knew my expression was one of the most intense sympathy I could muster. "Watson… my dear Watson…" I let the silence extend for a time. "You must understand… what you feel has been felt before."

He scoffed disbelievingly. "How do you suppose that? I'm not an adolescent boy, Holmes. This feeling is certainly not commonplace."

"No, I did not say that it was." I corrected softly, folding my hands before me. "But I assure you it has been felt. The despair… confusion…" I glanced away, unwilling to meet his gaze. "_Loneliness._" The silence stretched on painfully, and I could feel my skin crawling under his observation. "My point, Watson, is that however hopeless it seems, it is not impossible to make yourself a niche in this new age. Perhaps not as comfortable and familiar as the one you had of old, but it _can _be done."

He released a breath then, and I could hear it trembling as it pressed past his lips. I dared to look up again, and our eyes met, inducing me to smile very faintly while he chuckled and rubbed his face with one hand. "You sound confident Holmes, but how on Earth do you know if a niche can be made? If you were so content, Miss Lestrade would never have brought me back to life." I grimaced at the reminder of Lestrade's stupidity, but kept my expression light.

"Finding one's place is harder when one is alone. I must confess I was doing an absolutely dreadful job at adjusting to life as the only man left that had been born in _our _time." I said slowly. "It would be selfish of me to say that I don't regret Lestrade's decision to revive you, but the longer you remain, the less compelled I feel to resent it." I glanced at him and hoped he would understand, and judging his look of contemplation, I was comforted to know he was, at the very least, trying.

"I'm sorry, Holmes." He said heavily at last. "I've been an absolute nightmare."

"Not at all!" I said immediately, shaking my head against the very notion. "You're behaving a sight better than I, old friend. _I _was a nightmare."

He held up a hand. "That certainly doesn't condone my own behavior. You've _always_ been a nightmare." His grin cemented it as a jest, though I imagine he had a fair point—I had never been the easiest man to get along with, or live with for that matter. "I apologize for snapping at you, and my accusations toward Miss Lestrade were unfounded."

"No problem, Doc!" We both looked about as the woman in question entered the kitchen. She was wearing her uniform, though I was amused to see she had forgone socks and was instead tramping about in bare feet. "You guys don't mind if I come in, right?" She was already sitting at the table, and Watson's expression spoke of amusement, so I nodded wearily. "Good. Listen, not to interrupt any heart-to-hearts but we have a _lit_-tle problem heading our way."

I looked at her with interest, and Watson mimicked my expression. "Problem?" He asked curiously. "Surely not Moriarty…"

"No, not him. Well, actually, Grayson _does _wanna see us _about _him, but that's not the problem." She looked at me, and I had the feeling I ought to know what this crisis was. "Our problem just left the Yard. Happens to be about six feet tall and metal."

"Oh…" Watson and I spoke as one, and I ran a hand over my chin thoughtfully. Though I'd expected the compudroid's return, we had planned to meet him _at _New Scotland Yard and explain the situation beforehand. This was going to make things a trifle more complicated.

"Yeah, I know." Lestrade muttered with her face the absolute picture of discontent. "Grayson didn't find out until _after _the techies let him go on his merry way. So we've probably got about five minutes before all this hits the fan." I wasn't entirely familiar with the term, but I gathered the main gist of what she meant. Nevertheless, there seemed to be very little we could do about the situation now.

"You're talking about the…" Watson furrowed his brow, striving to remember the word. "Comp… er… _robot_?" I nodded vaguely, more intent on carefully mapping out our explanation. "Perhaps I should wait upstairs…" His hesitant expression only fuelled my irritation, and I regret to say it showed clearly in my movements as I paced the kitchen.

"No, Watson. Stay where you are. We shan't accomplish anything by sending you away, I think." I drummed my fingers against the kitchen table and sighed loudly, turning to the sparsely-filled cupboards for the necessities to make a pot of tea. The activity distracted my brain just enough to keep me aware of my companions, even as my fingers twitched for the relieving freedom of a violin—I still had not succeeded in finding one of the deucedly rare instruments. "He is programmed to behave rationally and logically. His reaction will reflect as much."

"Holmes, you can't act like he doesn't have _feelings_." Lestrade said rudely, "He might—"

"He _might_ do many things, Lestrade." I interrupted her sharply. "But I deal in facts, my dear, as you well know. The _fact _is, level seven law enforcement compudroids, for all their human qualities, were _designed _to remain logical and reasonable in situations where an officer would be compromised. Am I not correct?" I didn't have to see her nod out of the corner of my eye to know that I was. "Therefore it is my hypothesis that he will not—what's your phrase for it?—'_fly off the handle_'."

"Still. This is a shock." Lestrade defended, and I ignored her, sparing only a shoulder shrug. "Seriously, Holmes! I don't want him to think we're…" She glanced at Watson, and he bowed his head with a forgiving hand gesture. "Y'know… _replacing _him."

"What were the circumstances behind this?" Watson asked curiously, and ever the biographer he reached for the datapad, waving a hand over it to open a new page. "Surely a routine physical—or whatever machines have—wouldn't take so long." I glanced at Lestrade, but she had her eyebrows raised in an imperious manner that always irked me, so I sighed dramatically.

"He was… shot." I held up a hand as Watson made to ask details. "There was no lasting harm done, but the bullet _did _make a mess of his more complex machinery, and until recently the components needed to mend him were unavailable." I sidled to the table, now nursing a cup of tea between my hands and staring deeply into the murky, milk-whitened depths.

Lestrade drummed her fingers on the counter as she moved around the kitchen in a frustrated flurry. "Do you think he'll be mad?" She proposed suddenly, and Watson paused in writing what I suspected was a word-for-word description of the situation.

I, in the meantime, sighed yet again and sipped my tea. "We just finished discussing this. He—"

"I mean at _you, _Holmes"

I started in surprise, for the thought had not crossed my mind. "No." I said automatically. "If he left the Yard immediately to come here, I can only imagine he has been spared any righteous anger. Otherwise I daresay he would put this off—he does like to avoid conflict, as you know." Suddenly I heard the door creak open and a familiar metallic footfall. My hands tensed around the mug I held and Watson shifted slightly in his chair. Lestrade moved for the door but I waved her back with a hiss.

"_Holmes_?"

Watson glanced at me in alarm. "_That doesn't sound a jotlike me!_" He mouthed, and I waved him away as I had Lestrade, though my lips had quirked into a betraying smile.

"In here, old boy!" I called, thankful that my voice didn't wobble with amusement at Watson's distasteful expression. Lestrade took the liberty of flicking my right ear then, and I grimaced, though her reminder was well-timed, for I had reined my expression back to one of utter calm by the time a large metal foot appeared at the door. "Good heavens, Holmes. You aren't attempting to use the stove again, are you?"

_My _Watson, to his credit, refrained from jumping as I thought he might, though his eyes did travel over the titanium body quickly enough. His expression settled on one of mild disconcertment, while the compudroid looked upon him with great interest. "A case?" He asked.

I glanced sidelong at Lestrade, but she only made a motion for _me _to explain the peculiar circumstances. "No, not a case." I said smoothly. "_Do _sit down; you look distinctly uncomfortable standing there." I pushed a chair out with my foot for him. "You've missed quite a lot, old fellow."

If nothing else, the compudroid was an expert at pacifism. For a moment I thought I saw indignation flit across the elastomask, but it was quickly smothered by a smile and an eager nod. "Have I now? I assume this man has a role in it." He nodded to Watson, who nodded back, looking infinitely more uncomfortable as the seconds dragged on.

"Yes… he _does _play a rather large role." I said lightly, and again Lestrade hurried me on, this time with a discreet pinch to the back of my neck. When I began to turn my head to shoo her away, she made the entire matter even more humiliating by grabbing several strands of my hair and tugging them. I withheld my grimace of pain and looked back at the robot. "In fact, he's the very root of the action." The droid made a noise of interest, and I hesitated—I was adept at explaining problems, but I was less accustomed to being gentle about them. "This man…" I glanced at Watson, and he raised his eyebrows a fraction. "His name is Doctor John H. Watson." I finished somewhat lamely.

It took several long moments for our metallic friend to piece together what this strange revelation meant, during which time I calmly drank my tea. Lestrade sank into the last remaining chair, watching the dawning comprehension upon the elastomask with thinly veiled worry. "You don't mean…" The three of us nodded in unison. "But Sir Evan… he said… never again."

"And he meant it!" Lestrade said instantly, holding up her hands. "I had to _convince _him, and it was all done _strictly _off the record. It was only as a personal favor and a challenge."

"But… Holmes, _how_? You were preserved! I mean to say… it was very easy to restore you—you weren't in any state of decomposition at all!" The Compudroid looked at Watson, as if expecting his flesh to fall away at any moment.

I shook my head, feeling more relieved as time went on. "A combination of good fortune and the sparing use of cloning." I said dismissively. "Personally, I don't—"

"Why?"

The question hung in the air with a heaviness I hadn't heard in many years, and I looked up abruptly at the droid. He remained calm, as I knew he would, but his voice had lost all good humor. "This is unfair, I think." He said decisively. "I may not be_ human_, but I know enough about them to know it is generally courteous to let one's _friend _know of something like this beforehand!"

"That is a question for the good Inspector, not I. I had no idea about this until the evening she arrived here with him." Watson looked rather indignant at being referred to in such a blunt manner, but my eyes were focused on Lestrade, who clearly rebelled against the spotlight.

She took a deep breath, folding her legs beneath her. "I was _going _to tell you." She began uneasily. "I planned on letting you in on the plan a few days after the… er… _incident_, but obviously I didn't get the chance." I focused my attentions on Watson, the real one, who was again displaying signs that he resented being referenced so dismissively. I successfully caught his eye and shook my head a fraction of an inch in each direction, watching as some of the tension melted from his visage. "We're not replacing you or anything like that, though. You _can't _think that." Lestrade continued.

The droid appeared mollified, though not entirely pleased. "I didn't think that." He corrected with an oddly petulant tone I could not recall hearing him use before. "I simply…" He hesitated. "It's a shock."

"Well, I certainly understand _that_." We all turned as one to look at Watson, who had folded his arms and was looking steadfastly down at the table. He glanced between us with raised eyebrows. "I apologize; I hadn't meant to say that aloud. Though," His hand went to his face and began to fidget with his mustache. "It _is _the truth."

I fell back heavily against the back of my chair, feeling entirely too staggered by the present company. To think, I and Watson were seated with the descendant of our own Inspector Lestrade and a robot programmed to behave almost identically to a human—so identical, in fact, that it almost _was _human. In our day I would have reasoned such a scene away as absurdity and drivel; nothing but the slightly egregious ramblings of some mad fool. Indeed, my good Watson did have me on that point; I _had _changed quite radically to better suit these new times.

Whereas once I was obscenely protective of my personal boundaries and fought to keep them mine, I now found myself passing quite some time in close quarters with others without issue. My less stellar habits had likewise faded in their numbers and frequency, mostly due to the modern lack in tobacco, cocaine, and other common chemicals (common in _my _day, at least). I had, through diligence and excessive testing, created a formula to recreate cocaine as well as morphine from scratch, but as of yet there had been no periods where my descent into ennui was rapid enough to justify its use.

"—gone and zoned out again! Holmes!" I returned to myself in due time to see Lestrade scowl viciously. I blinked away the remnants of my temporary stupor as she huffed indignantly. "Jeez, at least _try _to act like you give a flying zed about this. What are we gonna do about it?" _Do about it_?

About _what_?

I kept a practiced expression of consideration, but my eyes raced over their faces in extreme haste to discern what I had clearly missed. Lestrade showed irritation, but more importantly a certain thoughtfulness and disconcertion. Watson seemed to be again miffed, and he was not hiding his frequent dark glances at the Compudroid, who likewise appeared to be most agitated. I nodded to myself with a slight smile; it seemed the naming issue had been raised.

"I suppose two Watsons would be a trifle overwhelming." I mused.

"Chyeah… not to mention _confusing_!" Lestrade added condescendingly. "So, who's willing to change their name, hmm?" She looked between the two of them, but they appeared to be digging in their heels in a similar manner to one another; for all his subtle differences, I was reminded that the compudroid's memory files _were _mostly based on my own Watson's old journals.

I saw, or rather heard Watson inhale, gathering the air required to properly berate Lestrade for her nonchalance towards the serious problem at hand. I, however, held up my hands to quell the possibility of an all-out verbal brawl. "I wonder. You both are John H. Watson, correct? It seems to me there are three names you could go by."

"Holmes, I am _not _going by the _H._ so you can put it from your mind." Watson ground out. "And I've been as I am for over two centuries! I hardly think it's fair that you expect me to alter what I have always been called. No one has called me _John _since Mary!" I was palled by his personal distaste to the use of his given name, which I did fully understand. Heaven forbid anyone but Mycroft and old Sherman[1] ever refer to me as Sherlock; I would be compelled to jump off a bridge. Nevertheless, I felt quite certain that Watson was dramatizing his outrage just slightly to avoid being the one made to change his name.

Lestrade turned to the Compudroid with a raised eyebrow. "Well, whaddaya say?" she asked lightly. "Think you can handle being _John_ from now on? Or we could call you _H. _for the mystery effect!"

"Not the H. Trust me, old man, you do_ not_ want the H." Watson groaned from his seat. "I believe my mother _did _go mad halfway through naming me."

The droid appeared unhappy at the selection, but it was clear that my good friend was not about to be swayed. "I suppose John will do sufficiently." He muttered, looking pointedly into the furthest corner of the kitchen. "May I ask what else I have missed during my time away?"

Lestrade chose that moment to yawn quite loudly and I was unpleasantly reminded of the early hours of the day. "Well," She said languidly. "Moriarty showed up last night—or this morning, depending on how you look at it." She grinned slyly, knowing as well as I that the promise of such information would chase any lasting hard feelings away.

"_Moriarty?_" The newly christened John asked incredulously. "Here? Why on Earth would he come _here_?"

Watson rubbed his eyes, and I had the distinct impression that the three of us were sharing in the exhaustion that several hours of chaotic sleep (or chaotic thought on Watson's part) could not overcome. "He assumed Holmes was alone here. I came as a bit of a shock." My lips tilted very briefly upwards in a smile.

"I hate to cut the narrative short, Doc, but I don't think I can go through any more talking without coffee." Lestrade interrupted. "Something to eat wouldn't hurt either."

"Provided Holmes has not demolished my stove in his time alone, I would be happy to whip up something nourishing." I took some offense at the deliberate, if teasing, barb. I might not have been the most gifted cook, but I had taken great pains to preserve the kitchen in one piece—mostly by avoiding entering it at all costs. "Perhaps rashers and eggs?" _John_ (good lord, even that would take some getting used to) appeared for all intensive purposes to have resorted to his typical good humor. Thank heavens for robots, is all I could say on the matter; my mind would surely stall from pressure should any more personal drama be added to it at present.

Though I was anything but hungry, Lestrade and Watson positively leaped at the offer, and in the ensuing rush to find the needed pans and food, I was mysteriously volunteered for my fair own share of nourishment. As the scent of cooking meat emanated through the room, I was quite content to lean back and close my eyes, pondering on all the possible changes that had yet to come.

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**[1] The Sign of Four:** Old Sherman is the man on Pinchen Lane who provides Watson with Toby when he comes calling. He refers to Holmes as "Mr. Sherlock", making him the only person aside from Mycroft to refer to him by his Christian name.


	14. Storm Clouds Ahead

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Sorry for the wee wait; real life mixed with lack of muse makes for slow updates. Anyway, not a great deal to say about this one, besides the final (and considerably long) plot of the story is starting to unfold. Also note that I'm by no means a mystery writer, so it's all going to be fairly straightforward to an extent. Anywho, have fun, and do remember to review! Thanks to ElizabethLestrade for the beta job.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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**_Chapter Fourteen: Storm Clouds Ahead_**

The process was one ingrained in their minds, fresh as though only just conceived. It began with one foot in front of the other, and extended to Holmes' impassioned cry of "Come, Watson!" which led to their exit from Baker Street in all haste. In the old days Holmes had lead by a good yard or two, for Watson could never keep up with his old wound aching as it often did.

The process had now been altered and it was all the more exhilarating. They now ran abreast to one another, or Holmes on occasion would take a slight lead if Watson was unfamiliar with the territory. From the air would come sirens as Inspector Lestrade and John followed from the cruiser while they took to the streets at such a pace that they were scarcely recognizable as they passed pedestrians, and their chases often led them through unusual alleyways and rooftops, darting along narrow ledges and leaping across gaps. The adrenaline blinded them to fear.

On this occasion they were on the heated trail of a thief who had cleverly stolen several valuable heirlooms from a local old-blood family. They ran as ever, though Lestrade had yet to receive news of the criminal's flight. As luck would have it, she exited the manor just as the escapee and his two dogged pursuers rounded the nearest corner. In understandable shock she jumped away from the fleeing man, and yelped when Holmes and Watson simultaneously grabbed one of her wrists each and continued, dragging her along until she caught up to their stride.

They maintained their grip on her, having learned through experience recently that, while she was an admirable force on foot, her shorter legs made it considerably harder to keep pace with their combined lengthy gaits. Initially she'd wasted breath arguing, but the logic in it was infallible. Lately she had simply taken to leaping from foot to foot and letting them drag her along.

Lestrade squinted at the man before them, her expression one of clear alarm. "Webster?" She asked. "I thought it was Powell!"

Holmes abruptly pulled them down a side alley, leaping over littered garbage as he continued to sprint. "So I thought until I noticed the most _conspicuous_ shoes our man Webster wears. The rubber soles have an easily distinguishable tread, as well as a clear scar on the right side, and evidently if he is this insistent to escape, our earlier hypothesis was…" He took a moment to suck in air while they bounded over an upturned trashcan.

"Grievously incorrect." Watson finished shortly. "We _will _have to apologize to Mr. Powell. He appears to be guilty of little more than suspicious—Holmes, where on _Earth _are you taking us?" The doctor staggered over a misplaced metal tin, while Holmes gestured ahead of them.

"I anticipate he will continue to turn left, being inclined to that direction and blinded by fright. Therefore we should be conveniently situated to intercept him. Ah!" They skidded to a halt, regaining their breath as they waited for the felon to follow Holmes's suspicions. The sounds of slamming feet were drawing nearer, and the trio tensed in anticipation.

Then, the sound of something (or someone) colliding with metal at a high speed.

"I _do _apologize for 'stealing the glory', so to speak, but the opportunity was perfectly sublime."

Holmes huffed and folded his arms while Watson and Lestrade continued to catch their breath. John, on his part, looked remarkably proud of himself as he dragged the unconscious body along the sidewalk. "Where did _you _come from?" The detective inquired, genuinely curious as his brief irritation passed.

The compudroid chuckled and pressed a panel on his arm. A nearby hover car of the most hideous shade of maroon they had ever seen abruptly revealed itself to be none other than Lestrade's police cruiser. "A cloaking device the techies have been toying with." He explained happily. "The idea itself is American_,_ I believe. The most _fascinating _technology. They've actually developed—"

"You have the right to remain… eugh! He's _drooling_!" Lestrade exclaimed, leaping away from their criminal, who was indeed salivating quite freely as he dozed through the land of unconsciousness. "Well, I'm sure he knows his rights by now. Is he actually who he says he is, Holmes?"

The detective surveyed his fingernails with what appeared to be acute disinterest in his surroundings. "Yes, Lestrade. He really is Luke Webster, and I assure you his cleverness has been accidental thus far. Providence just happened to be smiling upon him as he endeavored towards crime." Holmes fixed the dazed man with a harsh gaze, though he was more irked that in three weeks these trivial cases had been the only ones to crop up. Even his private business was failing lately; besides three instances of intense blackmail and one mysterious car theft, Holmes was vexed on that front as well.

"_Lestrade!_" The comm. link crackled to life, and Watson kindly took the full weight of Webster onto his shoulder as she addressed the screen. "Chief?" John approached the cruiser and opened the hatch, allowing Watson to heave his burden into the back seat while Holmes watched in amusement. As was his typical manner, he made no move to aid them. "What's up?" She flashed the trio a discreet thumbs-up, which Watson and John, at least, replied to buoyantly.

"We've got news on your little criminal project." Grayson asserted with a dark look.

"Who? Moriarty?" Lestrade took a stab at it, and he nodded impatiently. "What's the news? Is he starting trouble around New London?"

Grayson ground his teeth and the noise of it could almost be heard through the communicator. "Yeah it's 'im alright. An' you won't believe where 'e's turned up now."

"Turned up?" Lestrade squawked. "You mean… he's _dead_?" From the corner of her eye she could see Holmes slap a hand to his forehead in dramatized disgust, while the last two of their group merely shuffled their feet.

"_Lestrade, are you a coroner now?_" Grayson howled. "_No?_ Then why on _Earth _would I be callin' _you _if th' bleedin' psychopath was _dead_?"

"S-sorry, Chief… wasn't thinking, sir."

"_Not _surprising! Bring in 'oever you just snagged an' all o' you lot be in my office A.S.A.P. _immediately_."

They hung in silence for a moment, before Watson stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "I _do_ wonder why he says that. 'As soon as possible immediately'?" He made a face in confusion. "If he wanted us there _immediately_, there's hardly a reason to—"

"Yeah, about that, Doc… As much as I'd _love_ to hear this whole argument again, we _do _have a perp rotting away in the backseat." Lestrade moved to the cruiser and leaped in, firing up the engines. Holmes and John took the backseat, while Watson joined her in the front following a moment of hesitation. Though after a month he had become much more adept at keeping his lunch down during flight, it was apparent that sitting up front helped the process, and so Holmes had been shunted to the rear. Lestrade didn't mind much; lately the detective was more distracting than he should have been.

"Pole!"

She turned automatically, and glanced at Watson, whose eyes had reverted to their natural position of being screwed up in terror. "What would I _ever _do without you, Watson?" She sighed melodramatically.

"Declare bankruptcy by way of your insurance payments." Holmes offered sardonically.

"_Expire_?" John added happily.

"We're going to die." Watson moaned into his hands.

"You say that _every _time you get in a hover car. Hasn't happened yet! Re_lax, _Doc!" Lestrade maneuvered them smoothly into the New Scotland Yard docking station, steering into a parking spot with ease and flicking off the engines. "Look; safe and sound."

The doctor may have replied quite scathingly had he not been in the process of lunging out. Though several times he had been compelled to fall to the ground with cries of praise to whatever God had kept them safe in their travels, at the moment he was holding himself together quite well.

"Oh my God! Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson! Hi!"

There was a brief skirmish between doctor and detective as they warred to hide behind each other, though by the time Hopkins had emerged from around the parked cruisers they were side by side amid Lestrade's derisive snickering. "Hello Constable." Holmes ground out.

"Yeah, well…While you guys have your little _social_ call, I'm gonna take Webster downstairs. Gimme a hand, John. He's heavier than he looks." Lestrade waved the compudroid towards the still-prone body while Watson and Holmes looked on in disgruntlement. "Grayson's office. Ten minutes."

Hopkins, forever excitable at the prospect of breathing in the same vicinity as two legends of police work, seemed to wobble in sheer giddiness. "You _both _have ten minutes? Can I… can I get you coffee? Or tea? I mean, we have caffeine shots too, but they're a bit much for this time of day…" He babbled on for a moment about the many possible drink choices one had in the NSY cafeteria.

"Well… I suppose we might have the time for a spot of tea?" Watson glanced at Holmes, who was steadfastly staring at the ceiling. He shook his head a fraction, but the doctor rolled his eyes. "We would be delighted, Constable. Tell me, how _is _your promotion coming along?" These sorts of things did require some amount of diplomacy, even if Holmes was unwilling to accept it. Besides, Watson found the young man absolutely hilarious in his one-sided attempts to attract the detective's attentions. Not unlike many young women of their time, he had thus far been met with little success.

Watson only wondered what his good friend could have _possibly _done to convince Hopkins so firmly than he was a deviant at all! Of course, recalling several instances during which Holmes had passed himself off as a not-unattractive woman, Watson decided that perhaps he didn't have the stomach to know. Needless to say, the lax laws around such things in the new era was disconcerting—while Watson fully supported the idea of loving whosoever your heart willed, he would rather not have to tolerate seeing such frivolity on the streets.

"Well, I'm really hoping I might be a sergeant by next Christmas." Hopkins admitted in a soft tone, scratching the back of his head. "Maybe sooner if I do decent in a few cases!" He glanced at Holmes, who continued to stare at the ceiling irritably. "I mean, it's hard to look good on the force with people like you and Mr. Holmes and Inspector Lestrade bringing in a dozen criminals a week." He confided sheepishly. "No offense."

"None taken. I can imagine it's difficult." Watson agreed pleasantly. They entered the cafeteria, inspiring a brief lull in conversation as various heads turned to follow their progress to a deserted table. Luckily, it took only a moment for the novelty to fade and things quickly returned to the familiar dull roar of talk, though Watson did wonder if he was imagining the less friendly tones around them. "I've noticed we aren't necessarily the most popular visitors to the Yard…" The doctor mentioned in a low voice to Holmes as Hopkins meandered to the front of the room to procure their drinks. He glanced around again, while Holmes sniffed derisively.

"Hypocritical, Watson, is what it is. They come to us to solve their mysteries, and then go up in arms when we do!" He watched as Hopkins returned with his arms laden with dispensable cups. "Two centuries has done very little to improve the attitude of most policemen, I fear. Ah, Hopkins. Thank you." Holmes accepted the cup, and with practiced indifference he focused on Watson as the constable turned a brilliant shade of red and nearly splashed himself as he sat down.

"What's got you guys here today? I mean… if you don't mind me asking… Just curious…"

"We'll know in another minute or so." Holmes said coldly. "Moriarty is involved, of course."

"Isn't he always?" Watson sighed, already used to the villain's ability to appear at the end of almost any caper.

Hopkins seemed to find it less mundane. "_Wow_! Most of us newbies aren't allowed within five hundred yards of _any _of _his _crimes!" He sounded put out, and Holmes clenched his fist, effectively reducing his cup to a crumpled papery corpse. He tossed it into a nearby garbage receptacle droid, which buzzed and whirred as it passed.

"And for very good reason." Holmes said firmly, glaring down at Hopkins. "Moriarty is more dangerous than any common murderer on the streets. Most of his victims have never been found; _including _many officers of the law. Come, Watson, we are wanted with Grayson." He stood up and moved away, leaving the young constable in a state of shocked wonderment.

"Holmes, that was a bit cruel. The lad's only eager to help, after all."

"He would help by doing his job properly and _not _dedicating himself to the bungling-up of every case he gets hold of."

"_I_ think you dislike him for entirely personal reasons."

"Even if I did, it would never effect my conclusions regarding him. Facts, Watson! I operate on facts! Feelings have little bearing on me!" Holmes paused outside Grayson's office. "Though I daresay you enjoy encouraging him a bit too much." He pressed his thumb to the button that would alert the chief inspector of their presence.

Watson grinned. "He reminds me of several young ladies, Holmes. They always _did_ like the quiet types. They thought your dreadful manners came from being _shy_."

"_Silence_, Watson. Or I may be unable to contain my disgust for all things female… or _Hopkins_." The door slid open and they entered without another word, joining their two companions at the back of the office. Grayson, in all his glory, snarled up from the desk.

"You're _late_." He ground out. "You think we bring you two here t' 'ave you slackin' off at every bloody interval? No, don't even start wit' apologies!" He waved a hand at Watson, who shut his mouth abruptly, looking decidedly vexed. "Now firs' of all the _Commissioner_," He shot them a significant look, though only Lestrade and John appeared to see any significance in it. "is the one pullin' the strings b'hind this, so I won't take any foul-ups or complaints! Eugh…" Grayson kneaded his temples. "'E _also _insisted I tell you lot what a zeddin' good job yer doin' an' whatnot. Though I wouldn't 'ave you all workin' as a group if it was my choice. Too much experience in one team."

Holmes cleared his throat. "I cannot help my terms, Chief Inspector."

"Don't I know it?" Grayson groused. "Th' higher-ups wouldn't 'ave this sorta thing either if they weren't so blooming petrified that th' _Great Sherlock bloody Holmes _might up an' leave as a result." The two men had a momentary staring contest, and eventually Grayson's mustache bristled in the closest he ever came to smiling. "Spoiled rotten, you are." He muttered.

"Yes, sir." Holmes smirked back. "Anyway, aside from the Commissioner's kindly words of praise, I trust you will divulge the _reason _for this meeting? Given your short temper, I trust you disagree with it immensely, but have no choice in the matter."

"Don't you go playin' yer deducin' games on me t'day, Holmes. You're damn right in sayin' I disagree with this whole idea, but a man's gotta do what 'e's gotta do." Grayson flicked a switch on his keyboard and a city map unfurled on his table. "Any idea where that is?" He asked darkly. "You oughtta know, Lestrade."

"New York City, sir." She answered automatically, scanning the translucent green terrain with familiarity. "But how does this even connect to Moriarty?"

"Tha's where 'e is!" Grayson exploded irritably. He walked to the table and leaned on it heavily. "See 'ere, 'e was spotted just last week after a burglary in the scientific part o' town. Walker Tech is the name o' the company that got pilfered." A building lit up on the map. "The police there wrote it off as a fluke; assumed it was someone what _looked _like Moriarty an' they jumped to a conclusion."

"Common enough to do, following such a high-level robbery." Holmes mused, looking over the map with a keen eye. "What was stolen precisely, and from where?"

"The American government's keepin' it all hushed up, even t' the police force that's got _reason _t' be pryin' into it." Grayson snarled, shaking his head. "But Walker Tech's got a history o' developin' _highly _experimental trial products for the military. Expensive, too. Whoever did the job took it from the thirtieth floor. No sign o' ion trails near th' place."

"Naturally, naturally." Holmes ran his hand over the illusion of the building in question, and swiped his fingers through it. "No ions though… that _is _curious…"

"So there was a lull in traffic. Big deal." Lestrade said simply.

The detective shook his head. "Even in our time, New York City was heavily populated. I imagine it hasn't changed so dramatically. For there to be no sign of traffic near a building in the center of the downtown area is interesting, indeed."

Grayson held up a hand to draw back their attention. "Now don't get ahead of yerselves. _That _isn't the only situation 'ere. Like I said, Moriarty's been _seen for certain_." He tapped the map and zoomed in on a patriarch amongst skyscrapers. "Vulcan Inc., similar to Walker Tech insofar that it's been known to 'ave some work wit' th' military makin' experimental armors an' that they're refusin' t' say what was stolen in a break-in earlier this week."

"Moriarty was seen in the vicinity of the building, then?" Holmes guessed.

"Indeed 'e was. That's not the odd part, though." Grayson pulled out a data disc and fed it into the holomap, which promptly faded into a moving image. "Watch this now." Clearly a surveillance recording, a lone figure, easily recognizable as Moriarty, was being slowly encircled by a group of American policemen. At the last second before his capture, however, the villain vanished from view.

Holmes gave a noticeable start and rewound the footage immediately, watching it again after zooming in on his rival. After five consecutive times, he let out a sound of frustration. "No doubt some new technology I haven't yet heard of!" He ground out.

"No." Lestrade said confusedly. "There's nothing I know of that can make a guy disappear. I mean… there are some experimental clothes that can bend lasers and _that _sort of light, but nothing can actually make you vanish altogether." She shook her head. "Teleportation can only move _atoms_ a few feet, let alone a human being. There's nothing that could do this."

"_Nothing_, Lestrade?" Holmes waved a hand at the stilled footage. "Clearly _something _can and _something_ did. Most likely whatever it was that he stole. Now, Chief Inspector, though I confess my own personal interest, I must inquire as to why you are consulting us regarding a case taking place on an entirely different continent."

Grayson heaved a sigh. "You lot are considered the only _experts_ on Moriarty." He confessed. "I think they should sort it out on their own, m'self, but the NYPD came practically beggin' to our door askin' for Sherlock 'Olmes an' no one less. 'Course then Holmes turned into Watson, which turned into the _other _Watson," Compudroid and man exchanged a confused look, each wondering who had come first. "An' then they threw Lestrade in t' sweeten the whole deal!"

"Whoa, hold on. _I'm_ not going." Lestrade exclaimed. "I can't. Half my family works with the NYPD! Isn't there some clause about working with family?"

"Rules are bein' bent already, Lestrade." The older man grunted, drumming his fingers on the table. "An' your father's lookin' forward t' seein' you after the Christmas fiasco, anyway."

"_They _were the ones that flew off to Jamaica for the holidays!" Lestrade erupted. "What kind of fiasco was _that_?"

"I don't much care, now do I?" Grayson countered. "We've got a cruiser bein' painted now for you, NYPD colors so you'll blend in. It's one of the _old_ ones, too, so you'll take a while t' get there."

Watson perked up from his datapad. "How long does it typically take?" He asked curiously.

"Three hours on a decent cruiser." Lestrade replied testily. "With the piece of zed we're stuck with, probably five."

"Imagine," Watson said to Holmes. "Five hours to get across the Atlantic! That's absolutely incredible!" His face suddenly paled. "How fast will we be traveling…?"

"_Fast_ by your standards. _Painfully _slow by the modern ones." Lestrade growled, casting the chief inspector a filthy look.

Grayson, however, was unperturbed. "You'll have a month there. _Again_, not _my _opinion, but the Commissioner wants you to take it slow for once. An' apparently it's t' make up for all o' _your _overtime." He gestured at Lestrade. "But if you mess this up, yer all comin' back on an express bus. See how long it takes _then_."

"Fine, whatever." Lestrade sighed. "When are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning. Six o'clock _sharp_."

New London rang with the shriek of outrage emitted from one Beth Lestrade.


	15. Typhoon

**Title: Storm Chasing**

**Rating: T for possible language, violence and mature themes**

**Pairing: POSSIBLE H/L later on.**

**Summary: When Holmes becomes depressed and nostalgic, his fantastic powers of deduction begin to slip. In order to prevent the Great Detective from becoming a liability, and to restore his happiness, Doctor John Watson is returned to life. The question is: Will he be any happier than Holmes in a new century and a new life?**

**Extra notes: Huge apology for the delay, and I'm the bearer of bad news. Due to a lot of personal trouble, including some housing and school issues, as well as the recent death of a close friend of mine, I haven't actually been writing. At all. Meaning this is the last chapter I have fully written. I'm not abandoning the fic (at all), but it may be a bit longer now before updates become regular again, and I sincerely doubt they'll be as quick as they have been. I'm very sorry, but as you all know, real life comes first.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Duhhh.**

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* * *

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**_Chapter Fifteen: Typhoon_**

"You're so _lucky_!" The Baker Street flat rang with Deidre's not-so-dulcet tones. "I'd give an arm an' a leg t' be able t' go to New York City! D'you _know_ how many o' the _wildest _celebrities live there? My friend Laurie, y'know, she's always seein' famous guys just walkin' along like normal people!"

Holmes dragged his pen through a particularly excruciating line of Wiggins' project paper, and Watson mimicked the movement on Deidre's. "No crowds following them?" The detective inquired curiously; since being returned to life, he had been slowly accumulating a certain celebrity status within New London. _Especially _when news came of yet another holofilm being set to release with _him _as the main character.

"I dunno, Mr. 'Olmes. I don't think you need to worry much; folks in the states definitely aren't as up-to-date with classic literature. Not like _us, _eh Wig?" She grinned. "On the _other _hand, you got a movie comin' out now an' all! Hey Doc, how d'you spell 'conclusive'?"

Watson leaned over her shoulder and read through the report she was writing up. "You shouldn't be using conclusive there at all, I don't think." He said pleasantly. "_'Therefore'_ would most likely work better." He glanced at Holmes, who was steadily looking dourer as the evening progressed. "It's not as though anyone in America will _recognize _you, Holmes. Good heavens, the last time you were there was over two hundred years ago, and you had that dreadful goatee[1]."

"Even so, Watson. I loathe thinking of what might happen if I draw an infernal crowd as we pursue Moriarty." He moodily glared at Wiggins' homework. "You've misspelled 'cataclysm', here." He pointed out testily. "It should be a 'Y', not an 'I'." He shifted back in his chair and spent a moment or two watching John as he provided several upgrades to Tennyson's hoverchair that were bordering on illegal. At the very least, they weren't yet released to the general public. "I have no intention of being deliberately rude, but it _is _a quarter past nine, and we have to be up extremely early tomorrow morning."

The Irregulars groaned but stood up obediently. "Oi, Doc!" Deidre suddenly exclaimed. "D'you think you an' Mr. 'Olmes could pick us up some souvenirs? I 'ear New York's got some o' _the _trendiest gear! 'Specially in clothes!" Watson raised his eyebrows, unused to being asked to purchase women's clothing. "I mean, you don't '_ave_ to, but I saw these _stellar _skirts in a magazine for Bombay! You know what Bombay _is, _o' course."

Wiggins sighed into his hand. "_I _dunno what Bomb-whatever is, Dee."

Her eyes widened in alarm, and Holmes laid his head on his hand with a look of practiced boredom. "It's only_ the_ biggestfashion emporium on the East Coast!" She shouted. "All the girls I know would shoot a priest t' be able t' wear a _Bombay _skirt! Aw, _please please please_ Doc! You _gotta _get me one, okay? I'll pay ya back wit' my allowance, I promise!" She clasped her hands together and added the positively heart-wrenching effect of watering eyes that only Holmes seemed able to resist.

Watson sighed. "I shall do my very best to find you this cherished Bombay _skirt_. Pray, what does it look like?"

"Oh, I'll doodle it for ya! I got a good eye for this sorta stuff, so it won't be far off the real thing." Deidre grabbed Watson's datapad and opened a fresh page, setting about tracing an airy, flowing skirt that appeared to end at the mid calves. "Now, 'ere's my size in American." She scribbled the number secretively on the pad, casting a suspicious glance between Holmes and Wiggins, both of whom were fighting for straight faces. "Oh, an' while you're in the store, you _gotta _get you an' Mr. 'Olmes some new threads, y'know."

"…Threads?" Watson asked blankly. Why on Earth did they need thread?

"Clothing, Watson. The term was originated in the late twentieth century and has been coming and going in popular culture ever since." Holmes explained patiently from his armchair. "And Deidre, I'm afraid the good doctor and I haven't the financial well-being to buy any such items from a store like Bombay." Lies. He, and now Watson, regularly received gross sums of money for copyrights on their own persons. "I am a poor man.[2]" Holmes said lightly, drawing an amused glare from his stalwart friend.

"Well you gotta do somethin' 'bout your fashion situation." The trend-crazed teen announced. "Waistcoats went out wit' the dinosaurs. An' so did Inverness _capes_!" She pointed at the offensive outerwear, and Holmes shared in her disgust.

Watson, however, seemed highly amused. "Did you hear that, Holmes? We apparently hail from the time of the _dinosaurs_." He chuckled, and drummed his fingers on the coffee table. "I'll do my best to procure your skirt, Miss Deidre, though I don't believe we shall have much time for shopping ventures. We _will _be working, you know."

John disconnected from Tennyson's control board at last and stretched his joints. "Dear me, I always _do _get stiff in the elbows." He glanced at the rest of the motley group. "Did I miss anything important?"

"No," Watson said, cutting off Holmes. "Deidre only commissioned us to pursue a particular skirt from the extremely well-regarded Bombay clothing boutique." He held up the datapad she had scribbled her sketch on, having the good taste to politely hide her size from view. "A lovely addition to any young lady's wardrobe, I'm sure."

"Oh! Doc! Give it 'ere!" Deidre snagged the pad again and hunched over it, scrawling furiously. "Here! This is the _latest _men's fashion in the U.S., so if you wanna be any bit cool while yer there, this is the stuff you gotta be wearin'!" She handed it this time to Holmes, who observed it minutely. "It's not like the Euro styles at all, y'see? I think you'll like it a lot better than the stuff 'ere." She explained matter-of-factly.

Watson and John looked over Holmes's shoulders. "It doesn't seem much different than what you're already wearing." The compudroid pointed out simply.

"Don't be so dodgy, John. It's totally _different_. Only _the _baddest celebs—"

"You're speaking French again, Deidre, my dear." Holmes cut in irritably.

She heaved an exasperated sigh that only teenage girls could manage. "It's super popular because the hottest celebrities are rockin' it."

Watson blinked. "Rocking?"

"The most popular famous people wear this sort of thing, is what Deidre is trying to say." Holmes pointed out wisely. "I believe my slang has been improving. I understood the gist of most of that."

"Yo, as much as I wanna hang around an' listen to Deidre enter trendy-mode, it's quarter to ten an' my dad wants me home in fifteen minutes." Wiggins piped up. "Otherwise he's gonna go nuts callin' everyone from the cops to my grandma."

"Mmh, very true, Wiggins. I have no interest in spending another three hours convincing your father that you are undoubtedly in good health." Holmes mused with a small smile. "I believe you _still _haven't regained the privileges to your hover-board?"

"Nah. I doubt I'll get it back 'til I'm twenty."

"Well then, you had all best scarper if you're going on Shanks' pony."

"_What?_" The three children asked in matching confusion.

Holmes sighed into his hand. "If you are _walking_. Thank you very much for the lesson in trends, Deidre; it was most illuminating." Holmes waved them all towards the door. "_Do _remember to ask your teacher about the dates he confused. I'm certain he'll find his error if you point it out." They agreed, said their goodbyes, and a moment later poured out onto the street.

"What on _Earth _is _Bombay_?" Watson asked at last, looking at the picture Deidre had sketched. "And isn't this a bit inappropriate?"

"Bombay is located on Fifth Street in Manhattan, it is incredibly popular for its often risqué fashion and high-end products," John said automatically. "and I'm afraid this sort of thing is rather tame compared to most modern garments, particularly where we intend to travel." The droid glanced at the clock and stood up. "Well, given that it _is _almost ten o'clock, I'm afraid I must start recharging now to be able to last the day tomorrow. I trust you both remembered to pack when I reminded you earlier this evening?"

Holmes and Watson nodded in unison, and with an expression of satisfaction, John turned on his heel and left the sitting room, descending the stairs and traipsing into what had once been Mrs. Hudson's humble flat. The doctor and detective glanced at each other the moment he was out of sight.

"Have you…" Watson began, and Holmes shook his head wearily. "Neither have I. You think we ought…" Another headshake. "An old-fashioned morning rush then?"

"Yes, I think I would enjoy that, Watson."

"Very well then. Goodnight, Holmes."

* * *

"_Watson_! Did you take my toothbrush?"

"Yes, Holmes. Otherwise you would undoubtedly forget it."

"And my shaving kit? And toothpaste? And—oh _blast it all_, where the deuce is that shirt!"

"Yes, yes, and I gathered it from the dryer when I woke up."

"Watson, you are a _Godsend_!"

True to their word, Baker Street had become a hive of activity in the pitch darkness of early morning. At ten to five they were well into their preparations, both bleary eyed and snarling at anything that moved the wrong way. Watson, after packing his own bags, had taken to _un_packing Holmes's and putting the clothes back in with some added organization, throwing in the sorts of things the detective had a tendency to neglect, such as spare socks and undergarments.

Holmes, on his part, could very well have passed for an exceptionally peevish bear. Between cursing fluently and digging for his personal effects throughout the apartment, he would migrate to the kitchen and nurse a massive mug of hot coffee. To make matters all the worse, the only clean cup he had been able to find was an attempt at humor on Lestrade's part; "_Doesn't Play Well With Others_" was certainly the last thing he had wanted to see by the light of the fluorescent bulbs.

It was at a quarter to six that John roused from his charging station and happily packed it away with his own small bag of possible parts he might need to replace during the trip. He then spent twenty minutes watching with great amusement as his two flatmates rushed about in a state of utter disarray.

"_Holmes! _You stole my favorite tie last week and I want it back!" Watson hollered from his bedroom. "And what _did_ you do with my pipe?"

"Which one?" Holmes cried. "You have several, you know!"

"The briar pipe! My _good _one!"

"Not to worry, old chap! I've got it packed away already!"

John glanced at the clock and cleared his throat. "Given that it _is _ten past the hour, I imagine Inspector Lestrade will be along shortly." Holmes cursed and two fairly large traveling bags soared into the sitting room followed shortly by their owner, whose eyes still appeared to be half-glazed by sleep. He sat on the settee with a groan and massaged the back of his neck wearily.

Watson, at the same time, trooped down the stairs and tossed his own bags into the pile that had gathered on the floor. He glanced out the window, grimaced at the dark sky, and joined Holmes on the couch, looking equally unsuited for consciousness. "We ought to pack earlier next time, Holmes." He mumbled half-consciously.

The detective released a string of noises that might very well have been words in his mind. "Lestrade has arrived." He said suddenly, and Watson sat up from where his head had drooped onto Holmes's shoulder. "Do get hold of yourself, Watson. We shall undoubtedly be able to nap on the journey."

"No," Watson took a sip of his coffee, which he had wisely transferred to a self-heating travel cup. "I have every intention of continuing to pick through Gray's Anatomy." He picked up the overwhelmingly massive tome. "It's astonishing that I was happy to read the third edition when I was in university. Now I'm reading the eightieth!"

"I politely disagree, Watson. It's fascinating that you _read _it at all." Holmes sniffed derisively.

"Well, what do you intend to do during our five-hour flight, Holmes?"

"Oh, this and that…" His eyes drifted to the third bag that he had carried with him from his room.

The door of the sitting room then burst open, revealing a highly agitated Lestrade. "Have you _seen _the _thing _we're supposed to be driving?" She howled indignantly. "It's slower than my old _granny_!" She stalked forward and grabbed a bag at random, though when she made to lift it she let out a yelp of distress. "What the _zed_?"

John patiently took it from her with an apologetic smile. "Mine, I'm afraid. I should have warned you, of course." He trotted out the door, and the incensed inspector wasted no time in glaring at the remaining luggage. "Only two bags each?" She exclaimed. "We're going for a _month_!"

"Have no fear; we have any and all necessary items for our stay." Holmes said dismissively, and he lightly placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing them all out of the room and swinging the door shut for the last time. He cast one final glance around, and raised an eyebrow at Lestrade as Watson marched down the staircase. He brushed past her with a grin that betrayed his sleep-deprived eyes.

"_What_?" She groused, following shortly behind.

Holmes turned around and abruptly prodded one of her cheeks. "You're doing it _again_." He said lightly.

Watson yelled in shock when Holmes fell onto his back following a "mysterious blunt force" colliding with his shoulders.

* * *

Their departure went well enough following a scuffle between John and Lestrade over driving rights. The compudroid was forced to cite three different New Scotland Yard protocols before he was permitted in the driver's seat, and by the time they lifted off, the sun was starting to glimmer in the horizon.

Sitting up front, Lestrade successfully managed to curl up in her seat, and spent several hours playing with her handheld, which had access to a number of games as well as the internet. Every few minutes she would shift slightly, or demand to drive, but by the time they had left the coast of England entirely she had lost interest in the hovercar; it was only a matter of putting it on autopilot now anyway.

Watson, true to his word, successfully endeavored to read Gray's Anatomy for fifty minutes before he abandoned it in disgust. His attention was then directed to his faithful datapad, although staring at the screen wasn't providing any amount of excitement for him, and so finally he turned his gaze to the sack of what he guessed to be _books_ that Holmes had brought.

Given that within ten minutes of setting off the man had kicked off his shoes and curled up in a corner, Watson doubted he would mind terribly if someone else were to find some interest in his bag of tricks.

The first book Watson pulled out made him gag as a plume of dust came with it. He held his breath and opened the ancient thing. "_The unusual affair of the aluminium crutch was, if nothing else, a case of singular…" _He snapped the cover shut with a wide grin. He had thought Holmes' original notes of the cases he'd had before the time of Watson were lost to the eras. This discovery brought with it a feeling of joy that was not unlike Christmas morning as a child. He made to open the journal again, but a hand slapped over the cover and hauled it away.

"Tut tut, Watson. I might have let you see it had you only asked." Holmes murmured, holding the book to his chest.

"_Holmes_!" Watson exclaimed. "I have patiently waited _two_ centuries for permission to read your old cases! I daresay I have earned the right to _one_."

"No, Watson. You have snooped." Holmes insisted with a thoroughly immature smirk. "So I shan't give you _any_."

"That's not _fair_."

"All's fair in love and war."

"And this happens to be literature!"

It would never be fully explained how the situation devolved from there, but within thirty seconds the two grown men were wrestling animatedly in the rear of the cruiser, with the book in question being waved about within Holmes's hand and occasionally finding use as a bludgeon.

"Hey!" Lestrade looked back in horror as Watson pinned Holmes with one hand and reached for the tome with his other. "_Hey!_ We're still in the air, y'know! _Zed!_" In a split second she joined them in the back, and with a few choice chokeholds and punches, the scuffle dissipated. Doctor and detective spared one another only the chilliest of glances and Holmes tossed the book into his bag with exaggerated finality. "You, Watson, are completely incorrigible." He ground out, massaging his jaw.

Watson was busy holding his cheek, "And you're impossible to tolerate at times." He shot back moodily.

"You're _both _idiots, if you ask me!" Lestrade snarled, folding her arms and pulling up her feet again. "I'm staying back here _between _you two for the rest of the trip. Go ahead and fight over me." _If you dare._ She didn't have to speak it for the sentiment to be conveyed, though the two men quickly dissolved into laughter. John glanced back from the front of the vehicle with a worried expression, but rapidly his attention returned to the air before them, where one or two hovercars were likewise trekking across the Atlantic.

"My _dear _Lestrade. We were hardly being serious." Holmes said dismissively.

Watson sighed wistfully. "I _would _like to read those accounts, though." He moved towards the sack hopefully, but a glower from Holmes stilled him. "But we still have three hours…" Watson complained.

"Read Gray's Anatomy, then."

"Holmes, you know as well as I how incomparably dull that is."

The detective sniffed and leaned back, covering his eyes with his deerstalker. "Well I, for one, am going back to sleep." He announced.

"_Fine_." Watson followed suit, tipping his bowler over his face and joining in Holmes' example.

Lestrade glanced between them somewhat awkwardly and then looked to the front of the cruiser. "I guess I'll follow the herd. You don't mind, do you?"

John glanced back with a smile. "Not at all. I respect that you all have had a trying and early day—even if it only started three hours ago!" He plucked Gray's Anatomy from the floor where Watson had tossed it, and opened to the introduction. "I don't believe I ever scanned this fully, anyway! Rest assured my time will be well occupied."

The remainder of the journey was spent in silence, allotting for the occasional bout of snoring from the rear of the vehicle as one or the other of the sleeping passengers lapsed into heavy slumber. As the trip progressed, the three dozing companions slowly changed positions until they were comfortable; though they _did _present a rather amusing sight.

Holmes, on his part, eventually slumped onto Lestrade's shoulder, while she was curled into the upholstery which had previously held Watson. The doctor, in a display of remarkable sleep-induced movement, was splayed across the Inspector's lap and salivating slightly as he used Holmes's knee as a pillow. Besides several incidences in which they made some slight adjustment (and Holmes once awoke briefly when some strands of hair tickled his nose), they had made the best of an odd situation.

As the coast of North America came into sight, John grinned to himself and took a quick, but heartwarming photograph of the scene, storing it in his memory banks for a later date. Whether as a humorous gift, or possible (lighthearted) blackmail, he was unsure.

Fifteen minutes passed before he subtly awoke the compartment by turning quite a bit sharper than usual into a lane of traffic leading to the ominous city in the distance.

"'tson, I can't feel my legs…" Lestrade mumbled, shoving at the doctor while Holmes bemoaned his soggy kneecap. "How th' zed'd you wind up down there anyway?"

Watson sat up, flushing a deep pink as he wiped the side of his mouth. "I've no idea… I apologize, Holmes. I hope your pants are all right." He gestured at the patch of dampness that had accumulated, inducing the detective to sigh and cover it with his hand.

"Nothing a rinse won't clear up, though I can't imagine we look our best." With matching expressions of dazedness, and unorganized hair to match, they certainly did not appear to be in any proper shape to solve the crime wave plaguing a separate country from their own.

Lestrade sniffed and rubbed her eyes. "No worries. The guy we're going to see won't mind." She said with a shrug.

"We are approaching the police department now—gracious! I've never experienced so much traffic!" John pulled them out of their conversation as the cruiser began to descend. Holmes and Watson eagerly took to the windows, observing the city as they sank below the shadows of the buildings.

The detective released a long whistle of appreciation. "Our New London appears to hold naught but a candle before _this_." He gestured at the milling crowds on the streets, and the dark clouds of vehicles surrounding them. "I hadn't expected New York City to be quite so…"

"Enormous." Watson finished in amazement. "Good Heavens, it certainly has changed! Of course, I only ever saw photographs…"

The cruiser swooped into the parking bay of the building then, and Lestrade appeared relieved. "C'mon, let's get out of this thing before it catches on fire or something." She grumbled, leaping down and staggering as her feet became accustomed to solid ground again. "I _think _I remember where the office is."

With the cruiser properly locked and in the process of cooling, the four companions proceeded into the main building. Holmes and Watson discreetly fixed their sleep-mussed hair as well as they could and straightened their clothes while Lestrade led the pack, flaunting her disgruntlement as much as she ever did in New Scotland Yard.

The streamlined, brushed metal hallways struck an imposing figure, as did the uniformed personnel that moved past them, fixing the odd group with raised eyebrows. Unlike the NSY uniforms, the New York officers opted for navy blue and occasionally black material, as well as bright yellow badges. In comparison, the white suit Lestrade wore seemed painfully out of place, as did the London-issue compudroid and two men wearing much outdated clothing.

"Here we go." Lestrade planted her thumb on the buzzer outside a door that could have easily been missed but for the slim lines indicating a break in the wall. "Well, don't we make a nice, _organized _group?" She chuckled, glancing over them all once more before the wall opened to reveal a new room.

The first thought that bounded to mind on addressing the office was _homely_. The walls were of synthetic wood panels, and lined with various awards and degrees, as well as a not-insubstantial collection of firearms that spanned several eras. The floor was carpeted, and judging by the standard-issue police footwear residing by the wall, whoever was in control of the room was in the habit of working in their stocking feet. Holmes took a moment to observe the ceiling, and was unsurprised that it alone betrayed the fortress-like security of the building.

"_Finally_!" A robust male voice broke through the silence. "I had half a mind to call Grayson to see if you'd even left! Gave you one of the old dinosaurs, did he?" The man in question stood up, wearing what appeared to be a standard uniform of navy blue. His hair, though showing to have once been dark brown, was streaked with white, as was the sparse salt-and-pepper stubble on his face. Again, knowing the _original _inspector, the resemblance was there, but the man before them was far more imposing than his ancestor. He stood on par with Holmes, and if they were both to stand straight, it appeared as though the stranger before them would have the advantage by more than an inch. "Well?" His voice was a metaphorical foghorn, though his lips remained in a delighted smile.

"Yeah, you should see it. One of the old nineties models." Their Lestrade grinned sheepishly. "It's nice to see you, Dad."

"Don't be a stick in the mud, Bethy Bunny. Com'ere an' gimme a cuddle before we start on all of this!" The man grabbed her into such a colossal bear hug that her three companions grimaced in pity. "No, not a word! I haven't seen you in too long to hear it yet. Now, then!" He released her. "Let's see if I'm well-up on my history." He marched towards the three remaining parties, and Holmes felt a twinge of triumph in his correct deduction; the man _was _his superior in height.

"You're John, level seven law enforcement droid?"

"Technically, sir, though I _do _have up to level nine qualifications, as it were."

"Good, good. Glad to hear it. Those level nines have the worst wiring I've ever seen. You're of the more reliable bunch, definitely." The elastomask flushed at the compliment and they shook hands.

Brown eyes (_Their _Lestrade clearly took after her mother in that regard) turned upon the remaining men, and his grin took on a slightly fanatical edge Holmes had come to know well. "If I'd ever known I'd have you two in _my _office, you can guarantee I'd have read those books a bit more!" He crowed at last. "It's a pleasure you meet you. Doctor, I can't thank you enough for writing out all those cases—they've been an aid to police work ever since!" Watson, like John, blushed deeply and bowed just slightly.

"I can't say I ever expected them to be so popular when I wrote them." He confessed sheepishly. "Though I'm certainly happy to have helped." They shook hands, and the attention landed on Holmes, who could not help but fidget under the four stares.

He was alarmed by the hand that was immediately extended, but took it graciously. "You sir… I don't even know _what _to say, but I hope you can clear up the pretty little mess we're in." He let out a full-bodied laugh and put a hand to his head. "My good Lord, Bunny. And here I was always proud as punch just that you got into New Scotland Yard—youngest inspector they've had in fifteen years, y'know." He looked at Holmes significantly, while his daughter's face burned red. "To think you'd be teaming up with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson… your mother's _tickled_, Bunny! Absolutely _tickled_! All she talks about, you know."

"Yeah, okay!" The younger Lestrade held up her hands. "Guys, meet my father, Richard Lestrade. Chief of Detectives."

"The commissioner would have seen to you, but as things go they're more for the political side of things anyway. Given that this is in my department, I'll be the one you bunch report to." Detective Lestrade's expression fell into one of business. "I trust Grayson filled you in for the most part, did he Bunny?"

"Yessir."

"Good enough. Now, it doesn't take _Sherlock Holmes_," The man in question withheld a wince at the cliché. "to see you're all dead on your feet, so why don't you go back to the house and get situated, eh?"

"_The house_?" Beth asked in a panic. "We're not staying in a hotel or something?"

"_Hotel_? Why on Earth would you stay at a hotel when we've got a big house just outside the city, Bethy Bunny?" Detective Lestrade snorted derisively, a motion his daughter had clearly learned well. "Peter's home for a while with the kids since their house is having some reno's done, of course, but there's still plenty of rooms to go around! Besides, I daresay the kids'll _die _when they get wind of this. They're at that age now, where they'll faint over celebrities and all that."

"But Dad, how are we supposed to work if—"

"None of that now. When you go home at the end of the day you leave work in the office. This is supposed to double as a vacation for you guys. _Enjoy _it." He waved a hand at them and returned to his desk. "Now go on, I'll tell your mother you're coming."

They left the office in single file, and when the door was shut, Holmes glanced down at Lestrade with amusement twinkling in his eyes. "_Bunny_?" He asked sardonically.

"Oh, shut up and let's get this over with."

* * *

**[1] His Last Bow: **In which Holmes spends two years in the United States doing intelligence work for England in 1914 on the eve of the First World War. During his time acting as an Irish-American by the name of Altamont, he grew himself a fine goatee, which Watson later laments in saying "But you, Holmes--you have changed very little-- save for that horrible goatee."

**[2] Priory School: **In which Holmes is rewarded quite handsomely for solving the case. As he pats his pocket, he says "I am a poor man", which can be taken as some rare sarcasm on his part.


End file.
